A Game of Love
by Tonight.At.Noon
Summary: Rory Gilmore has dreamed of Wimbledon since she first held a tennis racket at age six. With her partner on and off the court, Dean, by her side, she goes to London not expecting much of her wild card entry. That is, until Logan Huntzberger, star tennis player, slams his way into her life. (AU)
1. Wild Cards

**A/N:** God, I love these two. With excitement surrounding the reboot rising and Wimbledon not too far off (and the French Open happening right this very moment), I thought I would combine my adoration for Rogan and tennis and create this little story. I'm imagining something between a two and three shot, but it could go up to a four shot.

Title is a complete and utter pun, forgive me. This story is very, very loosely inspired by the film _Wimbledon_ , which is one of my all-time favourites, please don't judge me. And can we pretend Dean and Logan are slightly taller than they are in the show? Just for kicks.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **A Game of Love | Wild Cards**

* * *

"Hey, kid."

Rory Gilmore heard a faint voice, but it was too far away and muffled to put a face to. She groaned, turning over in her bed and pulling her duvet up and over her ears.

"Very funny. It's time to get up, Rory."

The voice was clearer now. It was her mother.

"Go away," she groaned. "It's too early."

Lorelai laughed and tugged on Rory's covers. "You haven't even opened your eyes. You don't know what time it is."

A rush of warm air drifted over Rory as her duvet slipped across her body. Startled, she lifted her head up, blinking sleep from her eyes. Outside her window, she could see the sun still making its trek above the trees.

"Oh my God, it's so early," she whimpered, banging her head back down on her pillow. "Why am I awake?"

"Because I woke you up," Lorelai reminded her, deadpan. "Training starts at seven, Rory. Luke will be really not very happy if you're late. Again," she added.

Rory rolled on to her back and stared at her mother. "Can't I quit? You said I could quit anytime I liked."

"Yeah, when you were ten and I couldn't get the damn racquet out of your hands. You're twenty-one, kid. That ship sailed the day you turned eighteen." Lorelai poked Rory's stomach, causing the younger Gilmore to wriggle out of the way. "Seriously, get up. I'm not dealing with Angry Luke today," she said, turning and retreating from Rory's bedroom.

Sighing dramatically, Rory sat up against her headboard and rubbed at her eyes. She checked the alarm clock by her bed, seeing it was only 6:38 in the morning. Luke had been starting their practices earlier and earlier since summer began. As dedicated as Rory was to her tennis career, she absolutely abhorred having to wake up before at least ten.

"You know," Lorelai called from the kitchen. Rory could smell bacon. She could hear it sizzle in the pan. Her stomach shrieked, betraying her. "You wouldn't be so tired if you didn't stay up so late reading."

The woman had a point, Rory had to admit as she peeked over the side of her bed and saw a pile of five books on her bedside table. She had managed to finish them all in two days, finding time to read in-between practices and, of course, when she was meant to be sleeping.

But she loved books almost as much as she loved tennis, which was really and truly saying something, considering how passionate she was about the sport that had shaped her life since her grandfather—two-time Wimbledon champion Richard Gilmore—gave her a racquet and a summer's-worth of free lessons at his country club on her sixth birthday.

Deciding it was safer to get up now than face the wrath of Angry Luke later, Rory put on her slippers and went into the kitchen. She hugged her mother from behind as she cooked Rory a champion's breakfast complete with bacon, two types of eggs, a fruit plate, and some fried tomatoes.

"I'm proud of you," her mother said when Rory released her and sat at the kitchen table. Her back was still turned, spatula still scrambling eggs. "I gave up this life when I was fifteen, but you . . ."

Lorelai's comment stretched into nothingness, but Rory didn't need to hear the end. They had been through this same conversation countless times since Rory herself reached the golden age of fifteen. Being the daughter of a world champion tennis star wasn't easy for her mother, and in an act of rebellion she quit the sport after a particularly bad argument with Rory's grandmother, Emily. Three months later, Rory was conceived and Lorelai officially gave up on her childhood dream of being just like her father.

When Rory's grandfather had given her that tennis racquet on her birthday fifteen years ago, Lorelai had stormed out of her grandparent's extravagant house in an angry huff. She didn't want Rory to go through the same things she had when she was younger. Didn't want her parents' influence to effect which path Rory chose to follow.

Her anger only faded when she watched Rory play for the first time. She saw how quickly Rory picked it up, how hard she fell in love after only one lesson, and couldn't find it in herself to remain bitter.

Sometimes, Rory wondered if her mother missed the life she would have had if she hadn't gotten pregnant. If that was why she reacted so harshly when Rory started playing tennis. She never asked the question—she was far too afraid of the answer—but it always lingered in the back of her mind.

"So, what's on the proverbial chopping block for today?" Lorelai sat down with Rory at the table and dug into her own food.

Rory shrugged. "The usual probably. Suicide runs and such."

"Blech. I hate suicide runs."

"Well, it's a good thing you don't have to do them."

Lorelai pointed her fork at Rory, a playful frown pulling at her eyebrows. "Hey, I could do suicide runs if I wanted to."

"Oh, sure you could, Mom. I have no doubt," Rory said, smiling into her eggs.

"You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. And if you disagree with me, I could throw you on to the streets and you'd have to live outside of Taylor's shop, just waiting every evening for closing time so you could steal all of the rotten produce and stale bread from the trash bins. But then, Taylor would find out and have you arrested, and you'd live the rest of your life doing suicide runs in your tiny 6x8 cell." Lorelai concluded her rant by taking a piece of bacon and tearing into it.

"Well," Rory weighed, "I'm sure I'd be able to do my suicide runs in the yard during my one hour of outside time."

Once breakfast was over—which only managed to happen when Rory gave in and accepted her mother's ability to still run suicide drills—Rory ran into her bedroom to change. It was June, which meant humidity had begun its reign of terror in Stars Hollow, Connecticut. Rory put on her favourite training outfit—shorts and a racerback tank top with a black sports bra to match, and her worn trainers—and tied her hair in a ponytail. Luke would disapprove of her choice of shoes, as it was his general rule that she get new tennis shoes every six months, but these were her favourite. She won her first professional junior match in these when she was sixteen. Luke would just have to shut up and deal with it.

* * *

"No," was the first word out of Luke's mouth when she showed up at the tennis courts just outside of Stars Hollow.

Rory put down her gym bag and racquet case. She sat on the ground without being asked, legs out, and started stretching. " _No_ what?" she questioned, nose touching her knee.

"No to the shoes, Rory. You can't train in those. We've talked about this before."

Switching legs, Rory shook her head before going down. "You talked about it. I ignored," she corrected. "These are my favourite shoes in the whole wide world. I'm not going to change them out for training."

Luke Danes, three time Grand Slam champ, audibly sighed. Rory, whose face was still parallel to the floor of the tennis court, imagined him sliding a hand over his scruff. She smiled at the thought.

"Fine. But the moment you're in London, you're changing shoes."

Snapping back up, Rory frowned. "We're not going to Wimbledon, Luke. Not this year."

"You have a real shot, Rory. It may be just for mixed doubles, but they'll see you and Dean out there and think about you for singles next year. Especially if we can get you into the U.S. Open as well."

Her coach had far too much faith in her. Dean, her mixed doubles partner and real-life partner, was amazing on the court, there was no doubt about that, and even _he_ hadn't been seriously considered for a singles spot that summer. The news had bummed him out more than her, but Luke was convinced they would be chosen as wild card entries for mixed doubles.

"We're American. I think you forget that sometimes," Rory said, getting into a plank position.

Her warmup routine hadn't changed in the three years Luke had been her coach/trainer. He didn't need to tell her what to do.

"What do you mean?"

Breathless, Rory said, "Well, when was the last time an American won Wimbledon." Luke opened his mouth, but Rory knew what he was going to say. "And don't give me the Bryan twins. Or Serena. None of them count."

Luke took a moment to think about it. "Sampras won in 2000."

"You know what, he doesn't count either."

Luke threw up his hands. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

Taking a few moments to complete her plank, Rory sat back on the court and stretched her arms. "We're never the favourites. The only American tennis players people can name are the Williams sisters, the Bryan twins, and maybe Roddick. Maybe."

"You're forgetting Sampras. Billie Jean." He paused to think for a moment, eyes cast upwards to the sun. Snapping his fingers, he smiled down at Rory as she was rotating her shoulders. "John Freaking McEnroe. Hell, Patrick McEnroe."

Rory shook her head. "No, I'm not forgetting them. Nobody knows who they are anymore. Not today's generation. _I_ know who they are because of how deeply tennis runs in my blood. Luke, I _know_ John Freaking McEnroe. But the average joe either doesn't care enough about tennis to know who anybody is, let alone the greats, or they only vaguely know who Roger Federer is. We Americans don't exactly catch the eye."

"I don't know," Luke contemplated. "There are those two heading to their first Wimbledon this summer. Huntzberger and Geller. They're mixed doubles partners _and_ have a real shot at getting somewhere in the singles."

Rory stood up, finished with her stretches. Walking over to where she dropped her things, she unzipped her racquet case and pulled her trusty Wilson out, testing its strings before walking over to the other side of the net. Luke stood at the other side, a racquet in his hands, a large basket of tennis balls by his feet.

"They're just pretty faces," Rory said in reference to the comment about Logan Huntzberger—of the _golf_ -famous Huntzbergers—and Paris Geller, two young American players who both happened to be blond. "America's tennis fans will only care about them until they inevitably lose their streak. The rest of the world probably isn't even paying attention."

Thirty minutes into their training session, a car pulled up and out hopped Dean Forester. His hair was crooked that morning, but he still looked as handsome as ever to Rory. She went over to him, ignoring Luke's glare at the sound of her racquet falling to the ground, as he came through the gate and gave him a kiss.

"Nice of you to join us," she said against his mouth. Her arms coiled around his neck.

He smiled down at her and gripped her waist, his eyebrows pulled together. "How did you get here before me?"

Rory let him go and stood back. She looked at Luke, then returned her gaze to Dean. "What do you mean? Practice started at 7:00."

"No, Luke said 7:30. Not 7:00."

"What!" Rory turned her whole body towards Luke. "You told me it started at 7:00!"

Luke rolled his eyes. "I thought if I told you to be here thirty minutes early you'd actually be on time for once. I didn't know Lorelai would force you to get up. That's what you get for still living with your mother when you're twenty-one."

Shaking her head bitterly, Rory grabbed her racquet off of the ground and walked to the other side of the net again. Dean joined her a few moments later.

"Breakfast after?" he asked, knowing the mention of food would distract her from being angry at Luke.

"Fine," she said, giving in. She was never one to turn down the prospect of more food. "But I'm still mad."

* * *

Rory had met Dean three years ago during her first ATP/WTA World Tour in Madrid—in which she was a wild card entry—when he came to congratulate her on her win against Anabel Medina. She knew who he was already, had been following his progress since she discovered he hailed from a town just outside of Stars Hollow that somehow managed to be even smaller in population and size. Their romance began fairly soon after that, and had been going strong ever since. They joined forces on the mixed doubles court when Luke suggested she find a partner to get her foot in the Grand Slam door. Dean was her first choice, and Luke, after studying his game, agreed with her decision so long as their personal lives stayed off of the court.

Really, that wasn't an issue. In the three years they'd been together, they rarely fought.

After practice, Dean took her to a twenty-four hour diner in his hometown where they served the best breakfast foods known to mankind. Rory always insisted they eat there, no matter the time of day. She was sure he was sick of the food by then, but she couldn't get enough.

"You're like a hoover. You know that, right?" he said as she finished her second plate of food.

"So I've heard. Food just tastes so good."

"And it never seems to have any effect on you. Scientists would love to cut you open once you're dead."

Rory laughed, taking another sip of coffee. "I'll make sure they get ahold of me."

As their conversation drifted into nonsensical things, the door to the diner burst open.

Rory spluttered, watching Luke run over to them.

"Luke, what are you"—

—"You got in!" he exclaimed. He looked to Dean. "You got in!"

Still confused—how could she _not_ be—Rory took Luke's arm. "Got in where?"

Eyes bright, tail bushy, Luke grabbed Rory's shoulders and pulled her to her feet. He hugged her, hard. "Wimbledon!" he shouted in her ear. "You guys are playing mixed doubles at Wimbledon! You got in! You're wild cards!"

Rory gasped, her arms immediately going around Luke's waist. Her eyes stung with dumbfounded tears.

Wimbledon. She was going to Wimbledon.

* * *

It was raining in London. Her grandfather had warned her this would most likely be the case, but Rory had been hoping for a bit of sunshine before the games began. On the other hand, she didn't really mind the dark clouds. She was in London. For Wimbledon. She, Rory Gilmore, was finally at Wimbledon. The rain was totally worth it.

Though she had only been in London for two days, she had met plenty of other players. None of the big names yet, but that wasn't surprising considering how close they were to the tournament starting. They were all either working their asses off in training or avoiding the smaller people at all costs.

She had been scouting the competition online since she received the unbelievable news back in early June. There had been a few articles written about her and Dean's shocking arrival. Mostly, they touched on Rory's grandfather and how proud he must be that his granddaughter had made it to Wimbledon, the only grand slam title he ever achieved—no matter that he achieved it twice. They mentioned her mother too, but she generally skipped over those parts. She didn't want her miraculous conception and its subsequent forcing of her mother's early retirement—if quitting out of spite counted as early retirement—to be plastered over the Internet.

Dean's name popped up only briefly in the articles. The journalists open enough to discussing her usually only talked about their romantic relationship and how it was either great they were also partners on the court, or how it was detrimental to their game. Nothing about him winning silver at the Junior Olympics. Nothing about how amazingly tall he was. Nobody even passingly discussed his close friendship with John Isner, fellow freakishly-tall person.

There were two people Rory was most worried about who had been covered in many magazines and online journals since they were announced to be seeded at Wimbledon: Paris Geller and Logan Huntzberger. Nearly every article she read about Wimbledon covered them in some way, and they always brought up how terrifying the pair were when they played both together and apart. Just the idea of potentially meeting them not only on the court but in person frightened Rory, who was still very convinced she and Dean would be sent home after the first round.

Logan Huntzberger was the rebellious son of a world-famous golfing family, only labeled rebellious by the media because of his decision to pick up a tennis racquet and not a golf club. Oh, and also his late-night partying habits and affairs with leggy female tennis players. Rory had stumbled across a few photographs of some recognisable players—none of whom were American; she would have to point that out to Luke—leaving his New York apartment building wearing what remained of their outfits from the night before.

His on-court behaviour was notable as well. Anger, he had said in interviews, won him matches and it was evident when one watched him play he was telling the truth. He had nearly as many racquet abuse violations per match as McEnroe. Umpires were apparently as frightened of him as his opponents were.

By his side during mixed doubles matches was Paris Geller. She had no known tennis playing relatives. The first of her family to make it to the top, so the papers said. Her anger was never as evident as Huntzberger's. Always covered with icy smiles and glares. Still, she was a force to be reckoned with. She made it to the finals against Serena Williams last year at Roland Garros, losing only after twisting her ankle so badly it was on the brink of fracturing. Williams had to put up a fight even with the injured Geller playing the other side of the net.

Basically, with those two on the courts, her and Dean had no chance.

Despite the rain, Rory found herself wandering London with an umbrella in hand. She had made it to a tour of the Warner Bros. Harry Potter studio earlier in the day and was now walking through the busy streets towards the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, glad it was her day off. Dean still had training to complete, but she was happy to be on her own.

As she came up the steps of the gallery, her phone buzzed inside her bag. Pulling it out, she saw her mother's face stapled on her screen. Rory grinned as she answered.

" _Bonjour_."

" _Bonjour_? You haven't lied about this whole Wimbledon thing as a clever ruse to get you and Dean to Paris for two weeks, have you?"

"Yes, Mother. I lied about getting into Wimbledon just so I could run away to France for two weeks with my boyfriend."

"Hey, don't sound so sarcastic. I would totally have done that at your age."

Rory smiled into the phone. She missed her mom whenever they apart, hence part of the reason she lived at home despite being well over the age most people moved away. Because her father abandoned them before Rory was even born, it had always been the two of them. She couldn't leave just because she was getting somewhere in the tennis world.

"Does it sound like something I would do?" Rory asked, leaning against a pillar, allowing the rain to spritz over her.

"Definitely. I know you're secretly stealing moves from my Rebellious Handbook."

"Mom, why did you call me?"

"Whoa, who spit in your English breakfast tea this morning?" Lorelai asked jokingly. "He-he. Did you like my twist on _who spit in your coff_ " _—_

—"Yep, Mom, it was great. Seriously though, why are you calling me?"

"Geez-Louise. I just wanted to see how you were doing without me."

Rory wiped her head with the back of her hand, catching a few rain droplets before they could fall into her eyes. "Sorry, Mom. It's just been a really stressful week so far and I want to get into the National Gallery before it's too crowded."

"Only my daughter would go to an art gallery when she's training to play at Wimbledon. Is Dean with you?"

"Nope. He's got some sessions with Luke then he's got to go to the gym."

"So you're all alone?" Lorelai sounded sad, which made Rory's heart hurt.

"I'm okay, Mom, don't worry. I'm in London, how could I be lonely?"

"You're right," her mother said, though Rory could hear her swallow thickly. "And I'll be there next week to cheer you and Dean on."

"Can't wait," Rory said, excited for her mother to come to London. "Look, I'll call you when I get back to the hotel. Love you!"

"Enjoy Paris," Lorelai teased.

Rory hung up the phone, put it back in her bag and headed over to the gallery's entrance.

* * *

The next couple of days were packed with training and practices. Luke had Dean and Rory working harder than they had ever had to work before. By the end of their sessions, Rory's legs and arms and brain were all aching and in desperate need of rest.

Because the sun had finally decided to show itself, Luke was allowing Rory and Dean to practice volleying and serves outside by themselves. Although she really wanted to be in the heart of London seeing all of the sights and enjoying time with her boyfriend, Rory's addiction to tennis kept her working hard against her play-opponent, whose 11" height advantage had yet to deter her in any way.

"Oh, and another ace for Rory Gilmore. Dean Forester is really off his game today, folks. Not only is he missing his serves, he's also being beaten by none other than his girlfriend at, literally, his own game," Rory commentated, shimmying across the serve line as Dean went to gather another one of her ace balls.

"That dance would definitely get you in trouble with the umpire," Dean pointed out upon his return. He took his stance at the serve line and bounced the frayed ball a few times. "And I definitely let you have that one."

Rory nodded, lips pursed. She crouched down just inside the line, ready for Dean's serve. "Sure you did, buddy. Sure."

Dean tossed the ball in the air, ignoring Rory's taunting, and put his racquet down hard, sending the ball flying towards Rory. She was ready, though, already in position, and immediately whacked the ball across the court in the other direction. Dean's legs carried him cross-court, where he backhanded the ball.

Too much force. The ball landed just outside the line.

"What's the score now? Thirty to love?" Rory panted, sweat dripping down her forehead as she headed towards the net. She lifted her wrist and swiped her sweatband over her damp skin. "Or is it forty to love now?"

Dean met her on his side and leaned down so they were at eye level. "If we had been playing doubles, that would have been in."

"Yeah, well, we're not playing doubles."

Smiling sweetly, Rory leaned in and gave Dean a quick kiss before turning around to serve. She grabbed the old ball they should definitely have changed a few rounds ago and took her place at the line.

 _Focus, Rory_ , she told herself, staring at the hard court beneath her feet. Bouncing the ball, she looked up at Dean. This match was for fun—they weren't even keeping score (well, Dean wasn't keeping score)—but Rory was born with a stubborn need to win. And the wonderful thing about playing against the man who was both her boyfriend and tennis partner was how in-tune she was with his game. He had ticks she'd been studying since they met, spending hours pouring over videos on YouTube of the many matches he'd taken part in.

Dean was huge, he didn't need to rely on the other player to know how to beat him. He merely beat them by being taller. On the other hand, she was at least two inches shorter than most professional female players. Her main goal prior to meeting her opponent was researching their entire tennis career, trying to memorise their technique. She knew Dean's better than anyone else's.

Tall though he was, Dean was slow to move towards the ball. It took him a second to evaluate where it was going because he hadn't been anticipating before the toss. So, Rory decided to send the ball down the centre. He may just be able to clip it with his racquet, but Rory was prepared for that.

Throwing the ball in the air, Rory eyed it, her body tight, arm ready to swing. Just as the ball headed down, something knocked her in the back of the head, jerking her body forwards. Rory's racquet dropped to the ground, landing with a loud thud.

"Rory, are you okay?" Dean jumped over the net, making her think for the shortest moment he should have chosen hurdling when his parents made him pick a sport in junior high. He reached her, immediately squatting and inspecting her eyes.

Rubbing the back of her head, Rory winced. "I think so." She twisted her neck, looking over the short fence to the court behind them. "Who sent that over here?"

Before Dean could respond, Rory caught sight of her assailant hopping over the fence. His blond hair was covered with a white Under Armour cap, but Rory knew that face. She'd seen it plastered over Wimbledon billboards all over London. She'd been staring at it during her stalking sessions on the Internet.

Logan Huntzberger. And he was heading her way.

When he reached her and Dean, who had returned to his full height and was protectively holding her shoulder, he smiled sheepishly, showing off his glaringly white teeth.

"I'm sorry about that," he apologised, his voice scratchy. Logan looked back briefly at his court. "I was testing out this new serve technique."

He returned his gaze to Rory. She ticked an eyebrow up.

Dean, somehow, pulled Rory closer to him. "Well, I _definitely_ think you can cross that off your list of potential serves," he said, an edge to his tone Rory had only heard once in their entire relationship when she was being chatted up by a member of their tennis club.

"Yeah, _definitely_." Logan's eyes—hazel, which surprised Rory; she had always thought they were green—inspected her face, causing the blood in her cheeks to inexplicably pull closer to the surface of her skin. "Really, I am sorry . . ."

He trailed off, obviously looking for a name.

Dean beat her to the punch. "Rory," he said firmly.

Logan Huntzberger's face brightened considerably. His sheepish smile turned rich and charming. "Oh, Rory Gilmore. Granddaughter of Richard Gilmore." He extended his hand. Dazed, Rory reached for it, stunned by how powerful his grip was. "What a pleasure. I hear _you've_ got some kick-ass serving techniques. How's your head?"

"Her head"— Dean began.

—"My head," she interrupted sharply, discreetly nudging Dean's side. Her lip curled to one side when he winced. "Is throbbing. How fast was that thing going?"

Logan shrugged, his Under Armour shirt rising with his shoulders to reveal a line of his stomach. Rory barely caught a glimpse of it, but she swore she spotted the telltale black curl of a tattoo on his hip. That was new. She hadn't seen it in any of the photographs online.

"My average is 140, but I was angry and put a bit more into that one, so it could have been as high as 150." He wasn't bragging, but Rory could tell Dean felt threatened by the way he tensed beside her. "You should probably but some ice on it."

"Right, I'll get on that," Rory gritted, her skull pounding.

The trio stood there in silence for a few seconds, the London sun bleeding through their skin. Rory focused on how tight Logan's shirt fit around his torso to try and combat the pain, but quickly realised how silly it was to do that and instead moved her attention to the court Logan had vacated.

"I'm Logan, by the way," he mentioned, as if they didn't already know, offering Dean a handshake. Rory knew how this was going to end. "Logan"—

—"Huntzberger, yeah." Dean didn't take the proffered hand, nor did he offer up his own name.

She loved Dean, truly, but he was so stiff around competition. It didn't matter of they were from the tennis world or the real world—whether they were after his tennis trophies or her—he treated them all the same. Like they were actively trying to steal something away from him.

Returning his hand to his side, Logan looked to Rory for help.

"Dean," she provided, managing to actually _hear_ her boyfriend's eye roll.

"That makes sense," Logan said. "Your mixed doubles partner. Well, Paris and I hope to see you two on the court sometime in the next couple of weeks. What do you think?"

"We're really not expecting to go too far, but I'm sure it would be an honour for both Dean and I to go out with a bang against you and Geller," Rory said.

Smiling, Logan bobbed his head once. "Excellent. See you around," he said, looking directly at Rory. He pointed to her head. "Don't forget to ice that."

After Logan hopped back over the fence, Dean pulled Rory to the benches and grabbed at an icepack he had stored in his bag. He pressed it to the back of Rory's skull, apologising when she hissed.

"It's fine," she said, holding the pack in place.

"He was an asshole."

Rory blinked in surprise. "Who? Logan?"

"Yeah. He probably hit you on purpose so he could come over here and flirt with you. In front of me."

Rory's skin heated. "He wasn't flirting with me," she insisted, though she wasn't sure she entirely believed herself. "And he one-hundred percent didn't hit me on purpose. Who hits people with tennis balls on purpose?"

"Assholes," Dean said matter-of-factly. "Which Logan Huntzberger is."

Touching Dean's cheek, Rory offered him a small smile. "Hey, I'm fine. Really, though, what could you expect from him? He's steadily rising to the top of the ranks, he's taken thousands of supermodels to bed, _and_ he's just got one of those _nothing-you-can-say-or-do-will-deter-me_ kind of attitudes. Of course he's a little bit of an ass."

"Oh, God, he's gotten under your skin, hasn't he. That bastard."

Rory laughed. She couldn't help herself. "No, he's not gotten under my skin. Yours, however . . ."

"Ha," Dean huffed, kissing Rory's temple. "Let's get you to your room. Luke will want to look at your head."

Rising to her feet, Rory took Dean's hand and let him lead her towards their hotel, trying to convince herself the pink dusting her cheeks and chest was from a combination of heat and exertion. God forbid it was caused by anything—or _anyone_ —else.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** Intrigued? I hope you are and I really hope you plan on joining this story's journey!


	2. Let The Games Begin

**A/N:** Part two, ahoy! Thanks so much for the encouragement last chapter. I'm really excited about this story.

Some things about Grand Slam mixed doubles: They don't begin until the second Monday. There are only 16 teams of two and only three rounds before the quarter-finals instead of four. Aces are not common in the slightest during doubles matches, for obvious reasons, but this is fiction and I'm calling artistic license. Rory Gilmore can serve some aces in a doubles match if she wants to.

I hope this chapter is to everyone's liking! And JohannaSC, I did not know Matt Czuchry played tennis in college! That makes this story so much more worth it.

* * *

 **A Game of Love | Let The Games Begin**

* * *

Dreams were an odd thing for Rory Gilmore. They always had been. She imagined they were odd for everyone, but felt they were especially odd for her. Inside her sleeping mind, she _knew_ she was dreaming. Understood that what she felt and saw weren't real—they were images strung together by her subconscious. A personal movie made especially for her by her own brain.

Since she was little, her grandfather urged her to comprehend how important dreams were. He explained their significance, saying the things she saw in her dreams were messages from another version of herself. He said dreams were a product of desire and that she should always take them seriously, no matter how ridiculous she perceived them to be.

So, when she found herself dreaming of the hotel swimming pool at night, stars shining gloriously above her, she was slightly confused. Nobody else was around as far as she could tell, but the water was rippling, reflecting the moonlight in gentle waves. Peering down at her body, she noticed she was clothed only in a two-piece bathing costume and decided this meant she was supposed to enter the pool. She went down the steps, surprised at the warmth of the water considering the time of night, and dipped her head beneath the surface.

Coming up for breath, Rory noticed a shadowy figure lazing on one of the chairs by the pool. They were clearly male, evident in their muscled, bare torso, and they wore lavender-coloured swimming trunks which blended well with their pale skin.

She called out to the man as she stood in the water, her arms waving to keep herself from drifting. He seemed to ignore her, so she called again, louder this time. It made no sense to her, but she felt this urgent need to get him to notice her. He needed to see her, to talk to her. The desperation she felt was unlike anything she had previously experienced. It pulled at her lungs, forcing her mouth to open and shout to the figure once more.

The man sat up slowly, and inch by inch it dawned on Rory who he was. Her face froze.

"What are you doing here?" she questioned, her voice sounding hollow as it echoed off of the water.

Logan Huntzberger headed her way, a smirk pulling at his lips. In the moonlight, he glowed. Rory had seen him shirtless before—after all, she Internet-stalked just about every single player at Wimbledon—but up close he looked more like a god than a human being. Remembering something, she looked at his hip hoping to get a better look at the mysterious tattoo, but as she had never seen it, there was only a black, faded blob. He crouched down by the edge of the pool.

She repeated her question, "What are you doing here?"

Still, he didn't answer. Instead, he crept inside the water, moving waves over Rory's chest and up her neck. He waded towards her, his insistent stare keeping their eyes locked.

Rory wanted to move away. There was a thought itching in the back of her mind—the reason she needed to move away—but she was stuck, as if the floor of the swimming pool had been painted with glue. When he reached her, however, all previous thoughts drifted instantly from her mind. His hands carefully took hers under the water, their fingers lacing together. He squeezed and Rory shivered in response.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered as he took another step towards her.

Logan smiled, a warm kind of smile that reached into Rory's soul. "Don't you know?" he said.

Rory shook her head. "Am I supposed to know? I feel like I'm supposed to know."

"You know," he told her, head tilting down gradually.

Again, Rory felt a nagging sensation, but soon enough Logan's face was so close to hers that for a moment she forgot she was dreaming. But he didn't kiss her. Logan's lips instead moved against her ear, his voice soft and thrilling.

"Tell me that wasn't fun," he said.

Just then, the sky broke open, pouring sunlight over the pair. Blinded, Rory lost of sight of Logan. She closed her eyes tight to protect them from the burning light, and when she opened them again moments later, sun still glaring above her, he had disappeared entirely.

* * *

Rory awoke what felt like only a few minutes later to the sound of her alarm blaring. Groggily, she fumbled out of bed and grabbed her phone to switch the noise off. She headed into the bathroom. She was in the middle of washing her face when it hit her: She and Dean were playing their first match that day.

Gripping the sink until her knuckles burned white, Rory stared at herself in the mirror. That dream must have seriously muddled her brain. How could she forget that today was the most important day of her entire tennis career?

Practices had been rough all that week. Even her bones felt tired, which was a whole new sensation for her. Luke had been working her and Dean thoroughly, worried that because of their wild card entrance they were less prepared than the other doubles players. Rory felt he wasn't taking into consideration this was their first Wimbledon. Other than Logan and Paris—who didn't really count as they got a week of playing singles matches before the start of the mixed doubles rounds—every other doubles player had been to Wimbledon, or at least another Grand Slam, before. Of course she and Dean were less prepared.

Rory let go of the sink and sat on the edge of the bath, her breaths coming out quicker and harsher. Just what she needed. A panic attack the morning of her first Wimbledon match. Thankfully, before she could spiral too far into the attack, somebody knocked on the door.

Giving herself a couple of light slaps across the face, Rory headed over to the door and swung it open, revealing her mother and Luke behind it.

"Ah! It's tennis time!" Lorelai screamed, hugging Rory immediately.

"Oof," Rory grunted. "Hi, Mom. Luke."

Luke nodded at her as he untangled Lorelai from Rory. "Sorry about her. I looked away for two minutes to chat with an old tennis buddy and she managed to consume two double espresso shots _and_ a triple chocolate muffin. She's a little hyper."

Her mother confirmed this by shaking her head enthusiastically. "Never leave me alone at a buffet fit for tennis players. I'll eat and drink everything I can get my hands on."

"What even is a triple chocolate muffin?" Rory asked after giving Luke a brief side-hug. She stepped out of the way and allowed the two entrance into her room.

Lorelai gasped. "You are no longer my child."

"Oh, God, how will I ever live?" Rory threw up her arms and landed on the bed. Sitting up, she looked at Luke. "Seriously though, what is a triple chocolate muffin?"

"It's a chocolate muffin filled with chocolate chips and topped with a chocolate drizzle," he supplied.

Rory's stomach grumbled. She licked her lips. "That sounds delicious."

"Oh, no you don't." Luke harshly interrupted Rory's daydream about that same chocolate muffin by throwing a paper bag at her. "This is your breakfast. Eat anything else and I promise you'll lose your match."

Opening the bag, Rory found a banana, a protein shake, and an energy bar. "Nothing in here is chocolate," she griped. She pulled out the shake. Vanilla. "Not even the protein shake."

"Yeah, well, this is what I always ate before I played a Grand Slam match and it never failed me," Luke defended. "Except for that time the milk in the shake had gone off, but that is completely besides the point. Now eat up. We're meeting Dean downstairs in twenty."

Rory took everything out of the bag and slowly ate as she talked with her mom, her eyes flitting between her mother's face and the clock on her bedside table. Her anxiety levels rose with each passing minute until it was finally time to meet Dean downstairs. Changing quickly—she had nabbed an Adidas sponsorship a couple of years ago, so she wore a white Adidas tennis tress and her brand new Adidas shoes (a free, pre-Wimbledon gift from Luke)—she followed Luke and her mother to the hotel lobby, her dream from that night lingering faintly behind her eyes.

Downstairs, Dean enveloped Rory in a big hug and kissed the top of her head. She hugged him back, trying so very hard to push Logan's face from her mind. She hadn't had any time to evaluate her dream yet, but she was determined to forget about it for now. Especially when Dean—her _boyfriend_ —was rubbing her back up and down the way he knew helped calm her.

"Hey, how come he's allowed to hug you like that?" Lorelai asked.

"Because he doesn't try to suffocate me," Rory responded. "Admit it, Mom. You're like a python."

Dean laughed and let Rory go. "She's all yours, Lorelai."

"Actually, she's all mine," Luke said, causing Lorelai to pout. "I've got to get these two to the locker rooms. You can see them and hug them after they win."

Lorelai huffed and folded her arms. Feeling as if she hadn't given her mother enough love that morning, Rory snuck over to her and hugged her briefly.

"I love you, Mom," she said, fear suddenly gripping her throat.

"Oh, kid," Lorelai sighed, squeezing like Rory hoped she would. Her mother always knew— _always_ —when she wasn't as okay as she was pretending to be. "You've been training for this since you were six-years-old. Grandma and Grandpa are up right now all the way back in America just to watch you compete in your very first Grand Slam. Make them proud."

After hugging her mom for another few seconds, a teary-eyed, anxious Rory went with Luke and Dean outside to grab a cab ride to the courts. Dean sat next to her, holding her hand the whole way there.

* * *

Rory didn't know much about her father. Only that he was a deadbeat named Christopher who skipped town as soon as her mother announced her pregnancy. He hadn't even showed up for the birth, despite Lorelai and her parent's doing everything they could to track him down. She also knew her mom met him at the country club where he was an assistant tennis coach from out of town. His rich friend got him the job.

Despite the pain that pinched her heart every now and again, not knowing her biological father had never truly bothered Rory. With her grandfather and Luke by her side, she was want for nothing in the fathering department. As she stepped on that court, though, the spongey grass still green and lush beneath her feet, she wondered if he was up too, all the way in America, watching his daughter preparing for her first Grand Slam match, her boyfriend of three years walking just few paces behind her.

She hoped he was watching.

"We can do this, right?" she said to Dean as they sat down on their bench. She took a long sip from her water, already feeling dehydrated.

"We can do this," Dean assured her, nudging her knee with his own.

Putting her drink down, Rory unwrapped a new racquet and bounced the heel of her hand against the strings a few times. "Right. We can do this," she repeated. "Let's do this."

* * *

"I wish I could be there with you! It sounds like it's so much fun."

"Don't even worry about it, Lane. You've got twins to worry about."

"I could leave them with Zach and head over to London. Two weeks in the UK doesn't sound too bad, actually. I feel I deserve as much."

"Do you really think Zach would be okay for two weeks with just the kids?"

"No, you know what, on second thought, they'd probably die under his watch," Lane decided. "It's just so boring without you! Watching you play this morning was so thrilling."

Rory laughed into the phone. She was talking to her best friend back in Stars Hollow, a new mother to twin boys, while Dean gave her a relaxing foot rub. Those new shoes did a number on her poor feet.

Before Rory could respond, Lane screamed, startling the tennis player. "Oh, God, Rory I gotta go. Steve just threw up all over Zach. You played great today! Love you."

"Bye!" Rory called, but she had a feeling Lane had already hung up.

They had done it. Straight sets, taking it to a tiebreak in the first and coming out on top with 6-4 in the final. Rory had served the final ace that won them the match. She had been sure they were going to lose when their competitors won their sixth game in the first set, but they managed, somehow, to get ahead in the tiebreak. Without that first set, they definitely would have lost. But they didn't, and now they were heading into the second round against an Aussie man and a Spanish woman. She wasn't too confident they were going to beat them, but with this win pushing her forwards, she had to admit to herself there was a slight chance they could get through to the third round.

"Hey, I have to go meet John for dinner," Dean said, putting her feet down. He leaned over and pecked her on the nose, causing her face to pinch. "I'll see you tomorrow, superstar."

Before he could leave, Rory tugged on his arm. "Why don't you come to my room when you're done?" She tucked her head, blushing.

Dean laughed. "I can't. Luke's got me up early tomorrow for an interview. But I will see you for breakfast, okay?"

"Ugh, fine," Rory sighed, letting him go.

Still sticky and exhausted from the morning's killer workout, she chose to head to the hotel's pool. It was early evening and there weren't very many people in sight. She contemplated phoning her mother and asking if she wanted to join her, but she was probably with Luke and Rory did _not_ want to interrupt whatever they were doing.

Rory sat by the pool with a book, only managing to get a few pages in when she remembered her dream from the night before. With everything that had happened since she woke up that morning it was understandable she had let it slip from her mind, but now that she was bored and coming off of her adrenaline high there was nothing to do besides obsess over its meaning.

She had only spoken to Logan Huntzberger that one time after he rammed that serve into the back of her head, but she had seen him a bit on the Wimbledon courts. Still, just _seeing_ him shouldn't have warranted an entire dream about him. A slightly erotic dream at that. It took weeks of dating Dean before he was allowed in her dreams, and they remained solely G-Rated for at least a year.

She was Rory Gilmore. She didn't have dirty dreams about hotheaded tennis stars who weren't her boyfriend. She dreamt about puppy dogs and the smell of a freshly mown court.

What did it mean, then? Pulling out her mobile, Rory decided to look it up in the hopes the Internet would tell her it was absolutely nothing. No such luck. Each website she visited—there were ten in total—told her the same thing: Dreams are symbolic—obviously the guy you're dreaming about, who just so happened to be shirtless and wearing swimming trunks in your favourite colour, is your soulmate; either that, or you want to have sex with him.

Rory thought back to the dream. It had hazed over a little since the morning, but she could always remember her dreams better than anyone she knew.

 _Don't you know?_

He had said that when she asked what he was doing there. Not at the pool, she knew the pool wasn't real because she knew she was dreaming. She had asked what he was doing in her dream, and then he had cryptically responded with those three words.

Did she know what he had been doing in her subconscious mind? Was it buried beneath the mountain of stress pent up over being at Wimbledon? He was attractive, she was allowed to admit that, and she admired his game a lot, but she couldn't think of any other reasons that would justify his appearance.

Clearly, whichever bit of her brain that controlled her dreams had malfunctioned. There, that it explained it all. She was sure of it.

* * *

Ten days into the tournament, Rory found herself working on her serve outdoors in the London sunshine. The Wimbledon club practice courts were quiet that morning. All of the star players were either resting or playing. She could hear shouts of excitement every now and again, but they were distant and muffled. Besides, she was far too focused on knocking down the empty tennis ball containers standing on the service line the other side of the court to pay attention to the other players' successes.

Against all odds—Luke would protest, but he wasn't there, so she could think whatever she wanted—Rory and Dean were knocking down their competition bit by bit. They had played their second match and come out on top, losing the first set, but managing to steal the second and third.

Rory was still in shock. People had showed up to that match with her name on their signs. They cheered, loudly, when she hit ace after ace. At the small press conference following the match, reporters and journalists asked her questions about her game and how she felt about being considered an up-and-comer in the tennis world. They asked about her grandfather and how much more special it was to be competing at Wimbledon with her boyfriend.

She had by no means made it, but she was definitely on her way.

Bouncing the ball on the grassy court, Rory eyed one of the tin cans to the far left, directly on the corner of the service line. She lined the ball with her racquet and tossed it in the air, her body coiling like a spring. As soon as she knew it was the right moment, she forced her racquet down against the ball and sent it flying over the net. With a satisfying ting, the container bent back against the grass.

"And another one! My God," somebody cried, causing Rory to jump and drop her racquet. She whipped her head around the court in search of the voice's owner.

"You've really got a good thing going, Ace."

Rory looked up at the level above the practice courts. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she recognised Logan Huntzberger standing against the railing. He wore Wimbledon attire—all white, racquet bag slung over one shoulder—and that same dazzling smile she had seen in a thousand different interviews.

"Can I help you?" she asked, trying to stop her throat from vibrating. Not only was she sweaty and tired, but just a few feet away from her was the main subject of a very strange dream she was unlucky enough to have. Something about that made her extremely nervous, which in turn made her extremely annoyed.

Logan shrugged boyishly. "Just admiring your serve."

Bending over, Rory collected her racquet.

"Could you admire it from somewhere else? You're distracting me."

"Awe, Ace. You're doing just fine. Pretend I'm not here."

Rory pulled her eyebrows together. "That's the second time you've called me 'Ace.' Is this some reference to that stupid Jim Carrey movie?"

"You think," Logan said, hopping gallantly over the guardrail and landing like some greek god on the court, "that my calling you 'Ace' is a reference to _Ace Ventura_ —which, by the way, is an amazing film—and not a reference to your serve?"

Right. How could she be such an idiot.

Rory looked at the ground and scuffed the well-trodden grass. "That makes a little more sense," she offered. When she looked up again, she noticed Logan had crossed over to her side of the court and was starting to unpack his bag. "Um, what do you think you're doing?"

Pausing briefly, Logan narrowed his eyes. "Getting my racquet out."

"Yes. I can see that. But _why_? Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

"Coach said I needed to work on my serve. I'm exactly where I need to be."

This was not going as smoothly as Rory had hoped.

"Can't you use another court? Preferably one that's a little further away from me?"

She didn't mean to sound rude, but Logan's presence had started doing funny things to her body. She felt considerably warmer since he announced himself. Looking down at her hands, she noticed how blotchy they had become. He needed to leave before she turned into a giant tomato.

Logan finished pulling his racquet out and came to stand by her, so close the scent of his freshly-laundered clothes sunk into Rory's nostrils. "Nah, I think I wanna be here. Show me one of those kick-ass serves, Ace. I'm dying to know your secret."

"My secret shouldn't be of any concern to you," she told him, ignoring his third use of this new nickname. "You're what? Eight inches taller than me? What can I teach you that a taller, male player can't?"

Logan side-eyed her, his hazel gaze thoughtful. "Fine," he said. "Let's compete then."

"Compete?" Rory checked, baffled.

"Yeah, compete."

This man had clearly lost his head.

"Compete for what?" she asked. "You know, I've seen Paris Geller's serve. She could teach you a thing or two."

Logan twisted the white sweatbands locked around his wrists, his gorgeous, expensive-looking racquet tucked beneath his arm. She found herself staring at the way his arm muscles tensed and released as he adjusted the bands.

 _No_ , she reprimanded herself, looking away. _Dean. Remember Dean._

"Yeah, well, Paris may be my partner, but she's not willing to play games," he responded.

"And I look like someone who's willing to play games?"

"I saw you the other day with that Dean guy. You know how to have fun."

Rory scoffed. Unbelievable. He was truly unbelievable.

"That _Dean guy_ is my boyfriend. I don't even know you."

Turning his body to face her, Logan held out his hand. "Logan Huntzberger," he said before dropping his arm without giving her an opportunity to react. "But, see, we've already done this. You do know me."

"How do I know you're not here to scout out the competition," Rory said, crossing her arms. "I don't want to give away anything."

Logan bent at the waist and pulled a fresh tennis ball from his bag before tossing it next to Rory's. He set the ball on the face of his racquet and dribbled it a few times before throwing it in the air. Down came his racquet, and the ball shot over the net, crunching one of the tins on the other side.

He was showing off, the bastard. Maybe Dean was right—maybe he was just a flat-out asshole.

"I promise," he said, sounding as though a laugh was balancing on the tip of his tongue, "that I am not here to scout out the competition. I just want to have some fun and you seemed like the perfect person to have that fun with. Come on, Ace. Have some _fun_ with me."

Logan nudged her with his hip, and the feel of his shorts brushing the thin, bare strip of her skin between her tank top and skirt caused her flesh to sizzle. This was dangerous. Stupid, even. But what the hell. She deserved a little bit of entertainment.

"Fine," she said, paying no mind to Logan's expanding smile. He was too damn happy for his own good it seemed. "But what are we competing for?"

"Easy." He collected another ball and offered it to her. Sighing, she took it. "Bragging rights."

Logan winked and stepped to the side, giving her enough room to complete her serve. Rory rolled her shoulders, trying to compress the buzzing in her stomach, and bounced the ball. He wanted fun competition? Well, that was exactly what she would give him.

 **—**

"How did you get into tennis?"

Rory looked over the net at Logan, hand wedged inside the last of the empty cans as she tried to remove the dent for the eleventh time since Logan had called out to her. She had to admit it to herself, she was having fun with Logan Huntzberger. She didn't think she had laughed this much since arriving in London. Plus, it was always extra exciting to beat a guy at serving. Especially one as tall and confident as Logan.

Replacing the tin can on the line, Rory joined Logan on the other side. Mostly, their conversations had been full of nonsensical/teasing things. _How does it feel to get beaten by a girl? I don't know, I'll tell you when that happens._ How did you get into tennis? That was personal territory.

"Grandfather," she said simply. "Gave me my first racquet. You?"

"Same."

"Your grandfather, a world-famous golfer, got you into tennis?"

Logan laughed. "Look who's been doing some research on the Huntzberger family," he joked. "No, not my grandfather. Yours."

Shocked, Rory took a step away from Logan. " _Mine_?"

"Yeah," Logan said, nodding. "Your grandfather. Richard Gilmore. He didn't give me my first racquet or anything, but I met him at one of my dad's golfing things when I was younger. I'd seen him on the TV and had always liked the idea of tennis, but meeting him really cemented it."

"That's unbelievable," Rory breathed, eyes wide in disbelief. " _My_ grandfather. Wow."

"I mean, it started as a rebellious move, to be perfectly honest," he admitted, picking at the fluff on the tennis ball in his hands. He squinted in the sunlight, but she still could see flecks of green. "My dad was so adamant about me becoming a golfer like every other Huntzberger in the world, but I just wasn't having it. Soon enough, though, it became pretty clear tennis was the way I was going to go."

Unable to help herself, Rory sniggered. She immediately slapped her hand over her mouth and uttered an apology, but the damage was already done.

"You laughing at my tennis story, Ace?" Logan chucked the ball at her, narrowly missing her knee.

 _Eighth time_.

"No," she insisted. "I promise. It's just . . . the idea that choosing tennis over golf was a rebellious move in your house."

Logan smiled, but something about it was off. "Believe me, it was a total rebellious move. In the months following, it was like I had declared war on golf. My dad didn't talk to me for over a year. Not really, at least. He still doesn't come to any of my matches."

And that was the perfect thing to say to completely ruin the mood.

Rory's face sobered. She bit her lip and stared at the ground.

"Sorry," she murmured, her cheeks flushing. "I—I didn't know."

She spotted Logan's shadow approaching her. Glancing upwards, her breath caught in her throat. He was standing dangerously close.

"It's fine, Ace. I'm over it," he said, but it sounded so much like a lie. "I plan on winning this whole event," he swept his hands around, "to prove that I don't need his support to become something great."

 _Ninth time_.

"That's actually kind of beautiful," Rory acknowledged, tongue dry. "Poetic, almost."

Nodding, Logan allowed a creeping, small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. His hand came up near Rory's face, and she froze as his thumb brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said.

Rory cleared her throat and took a step back. "You, uh, you should."

"Right, boyfriend," Logan said, dropping his arm. "Sorry, Ace."

 _Tenth time_.

"No, that's fine. It's fine. We're fine. We didn't do anything," she rambled. " _You_ didn't do anything. It's fine."

Except it wasn't fine, because for the past hour she had completely—utterly, wholly, one-hundred percent—forgotten about Dean.

As if God was punishing her, Rory suddenly heard her name being called. Looking up where she had previously spotted Logan, Rory found her mother waving at her.

"Rory! You were supposed to be back at the hotel twenty minutes ago!" Lorelai hollered.

Guilt sunk like the heaviest stone to the bottom of her stomach. She was a terrible person.

Finding Logan again, who had started packing up his things, Rory tapped his back. He looked over his shoulder at her, and the sight of him, for some reason, made her heart leap into her throat.

"Look, I've got to go," she said. "Sorry."

Before she could escape, Logan stood up and held out his hand once more. Ignoring that voice in her head that was screaming so very loudly that this was a horrible, terrible mistake, she took his outstretched limb.

"Go, it's alright," he said, lowering his head ever so slightly, "now, tell me that wasn't fun."

Rory got a sudden flashback to her dream from a few nights ago.

 _Tell me that wasn't fun_.

Dream Logan had said that.

Rory peered up at him, lips parted in disbelief. "Right," she whirred, brain humming. "Fun."

Releasing her hand, Logan took off in the opposite direction from her mother. He didn't look back.

"Who was that?" Lorelai asked when Rory reached her.

Inhaling a discreet breath in a lame attempt to gather her haywire thoughts, Rory shook her head. "Nobody of significance."

"Are you sure? He looked kind of significant."

"Well, he isn't," Rory snapped, immediately regretting her tone. She sighed. "Sorry, Mom. He's nobody, really. Just another tennis player."

"Hey, it's none of my business," she said, but Rory knew her mother. She had an opinion on everything. "Dean's been worried about you."

The mention of Dean's name stabbed Rory like a sharp knife. "I know. He's always worried about me."

Lorelai placed an arm around Rory's shoulders and matched their strides. "It's okay, kid. You're doing fine."

They walked the rest of the way to the hotel in silence. It was just over a mile away, but the sunset was so gorgeous Rory barely felt like she was moving at all.

She would need to evaluate the evening's events soon, though. And she would have to revisit that dream. But for now, she laid her head on her mother's shoulder and tried to remember every detail she could about Dean's face, mentally whacking herself with a tennis racquet each time one of Logan's features popped up.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** So, it's definitely looking like this will be a bit longer than I had originally anticipated. And I know it seems like Dean's perfect and Rory's totally in love, but I promise there is danger ahead. Thanks for reading!


	3. Aces, Man

**A/N:** It's a shorter chapter, but have no fear! The reason it's two-thousand words less than the other two is because this chapter sort of ran away from me and became 8,000 words before I could stop it. So, I'm splitting it. Expect the next one tomorrow! Things are really heating up.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **A Game of Love | Aces, Man**

* * *

Rory Gilmore was hot— _boiling_. Sweat ran from her forehead into her eyes. It pooled at her lower back, dripped into her shoes. Blinking the stinging sensation away, she brought up her wrist and swiped the sweatband over her cheeks and into her hairline. She let out a breath and adjusted her visor, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the painful swell of her right knee. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Dean as one of the ball boys offered him two new tennis balls. He took them, tucking one deep into his short's pocket. The other he threw to the ground and bounced with his racquet.

Returning her attention to the players on the other side of the net, Rory spun her racquet in her hands and tapped the worn grass with the tip before taking her stance. She could feel Dean toss the ball in the air, and her whole body seized in anticipation of his serve.

 _One more point_ , she told herself. _One more and we're through to the semis_.

The court was silent—the only noise came from the sound of the ball as it whipped through the air. To Rory, it sounded as though it was in slow motion. As if God had pressed some button on his Universal remote and, as a result, they were all moving at snail speed.

But then Rory heard Dean's racquet come down hard on the ball, and God decided to press Play. The ball zoomed past her, rustling the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. She brought her racquet up, prepared for the return by the Czech man, and slammed it into the ball, watching as it spiralled to the left. The Canadian woman couldn't reach it in time. Rory Gilmore held her breath, eyes glued to the yellow ball as it bounced just inside the line and off to the side.

Rory released her racquet, its muted thud onto the grass vibrating her feet. They had done it. They were going to the semi-finals at Wimbledon.

Exhilarated, Rory ran over to Dean and leapt into his arms to the sound of cheers. He swung her around as she squealed, setting her down and pressing a kiss to her lips. He tasted salty and tired, but she couldn't have been happier.

"I can't believe it!" she shouted, a wide smile yanking her mouth apart.

Dean beamed down at her. "Believe it, Rory. We're one step closer to winning this thing!"

 **—**

Since the start of the tournament, Rory and Dean had been a part of a few press conferences. It came with the territory of playing at a Grand Slam regardless of what division you were a part of. Usually, there were only a few reporters and photographers there—they were mixed doubles players, unseeded; nobody, at the heart of it, really cared about them. The conference would last for maybe ten minutes, twenty if there was someone there who really loved her grandfather, and then she and Dean would be off again, not expecting to be mentioned in more than a paragraph throughout the magazines, journals, and various newspapers covering Wimbledon.

One can guess, then, how shocked Rory and her partner were to find at least twice the size of reporters and photographers when they entered the press room following their quarter-finals win.

For a second, Rory was terrified. The cameras were snapping and flashing, burning her already tired and sore eyes. The journalists were scribbling in their notebooks, the noise of their pens scratching sounding like nails on a chalkboard to the hypersensitive tennis player. Dean, his hand on her back, stiffened at the sudden intrusion, but led Rory to her seat like the gentleman he was, hand firmly pressing against her spine the entire time. He didn't remove it even after they sat down.

What were they doing there? Rory saw the familiar faces of those who regularly appeared at her press conferences, but there were so many more strangers than she could count. And she had her doubts their interest in her and Dean spiked merely from their win just a few moments ago.

Suddenly very nervous and sightly afraid, if she was being totally honest with herself, Rory sat on her hands to keep from jittering. Dean slid his hand from her upper back to her knee, but the contact of bare skin on bare skin only made her jump. Desperately, Rory's eyes sought out Luke in the crowd of newcomers, her heart immediately slowing in pace when she caught him talking and laughing comfortably with one of the photographers. If Luke wasn't alarmed, Rory decided she wouldn't be either.

Sitting on Dean's left, the woman conducting the conference asked everyone to be quiet so the interviews could begin. Shutters still clicked, but conversation went dry as the reporters all stuck their hands in the air. Dean chose first.

"Uh, yes," began an older looking man Rory had never seen before, "how does it feel to be coming so far in the tournament from your wild card entries?"

With ease, Dean answered the question. "It feels pretty good," he joked, sending the whole room up in laughter. He squeezed Rory's knee. "We were shocked when we got the news Wimbledon had accepted us, so to win the quarter-finals against two top-seeded players is an indescribable feeling."

The reporter looked at Rory, clearly expecting her to add something to Dean's comment.

"Um," she fumbled, forgetting momentarily that she too had to take part in this event. Taking a second, Rory gathered her erratic thoughts. "Um, yeah. What he said. Being able to say that we made it to the semi-finals at Wimbledon is surreal. I don't know how much further we can go after this, considering the options lying before us in competitors, but coming this far is more than a dream come true."

The reporter nodded and scribbled some things down in his notebook, opening up the floor for more questions.

Rory decided on a small woman sitting near the back.

"Congratulations on your win," she commended. "Do you think, Rory, that your personal relationship with Dean off of the court affects your game in any way? Positively or negatively."

Rory couldn't help but laugh. She and Dean had gotten this question so many times before the answer was practically rehearsed.

"Definitely. It definitely affects our game. Because of how well we know each other, it's almost unfair to other players. We've been together for three years now and in that time we've been able to really study each other's playing style. On the court this is key, because it means we know what the other person is going to do without even needing to look at them."

"Agreed." Dean jumped in, picking up where he always did with this question. "It's never been a negative that we're together when we put our racquets down."

"Not even after a fight?" the reporter added, not looking up from her notepad.

Rory shook her head. "Not even then. We don't really fight very often about non-tennis related stuff, and the arguments we do have are resolved almost instantly."

The reporter smiled at them, and it was off to the next question.

"This one's for Rory again. Your grandfather, is he proud of your accomplishment here at Wimbledon?"

Rory automatically smiled at the mention of her grandfather. "Oh, yeah," she said, "he's incredibly proud. He calls me up after every match to discuss the technical side of things no matter how early it is back in the States."

This garnered laughs from the crowd and Rory's mind eased. The adrenaline from their win was slowly easing, but the excitement surrounding it had hardly wavered.

"Another for Rory," said the next reporter, causing Rory's eyes to widen. She was surely popular. "Are you aware that Logan Huntzberger, when asked who he felt was the best player at this tournament in his previous press conference, stated, and I quote, 'Rory Gilmore is an absolutely fantastic player. I could say she has potential, but I think she's at the point in her game where she can't improve anymore. There's no more room for her to go up. She's already amazing on and off the court. I mean, have you guys seen her serve? Aces, man. Aces'?"

Rory's stomach twisted painfully. Forget butterflies, she had giant moths with rock-hard wings beating the inside of her belly. She had a feeling Dean's hand had left her knee, but couldn't be sure. It was as if her whole body was numb and on fire at the same time.

"Um—um," she stuttered, aware suddenly that everyone was staring at her, waiting for a response. "What—uh—what's the question exactly?"

"What do you think pushed Logan Huntzberger, who is playing his semi-final match later today and who won with Paris Geller in his own mixed doubles quarter-final match, to say that _you_ —an unseeded wild card—were the best player in this entire tournament." Pause. "No offence."

Had he said that? Really? Logan Huntzberger had told the press—and she had no doubt in her mind there were three times as many people at his conference than there were at her and Dean's—that she, in his personal, seeded opinion, was the best player at Wimbledon. No. Just . . . no. There was absolutely no way in hell he had meant that to _not_ be a joke. Although, the potential seriousness of his comments did explain her sudden rise in popularity.

"I'm sure he was being facetious," Rory offered, really not sure how to broach the question. "As far as I'm aware, he's never actually seen me play."

That is, of course, if she wasn't counting that late afternoon training session they had a couple of days ago. Which she wasn't.

The reporter looked down at his notes. "No, he made sure we knew he was being truthful. Quote, 'And you can quote me on that. Rory Gilmore isn't an up-and-comer. She's already up there'."

"I'm not really sure what you want me to say." Rory removed her hands from beneath her thighs and wiped them on her skirt. She was going to need at least two showers _and_ a bath after this interview. "He's very kind to say those things about me, but I hardly think he was being one-hundred percent honest. If anything, he's the best player here. I don't know what would make him say that _I_ was."

The reporter nodded. He had the answer he desired. Rory breathed a sigh of relief, highly aware of how closed off Dean had become. He chose the next interviewer with a cold tone she didn't like the sound of at all.

Thirty minutes into the conference, somebody came in to say they would have to vacate the premises within the next two minutes before the next round of players needed to give their interviews. Luke came over to Rory and Dean and ushered them out, their bags clutched tightly in his hand.

Once they were outside and free from Luke, Dean took no time before confronting Rory.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, hands on his hips. He sounded angry, which was new for him. Rory had obviously seen him jealous before, but this was jealousy on a whole new level. "Huh? What was that? Why did he say those things about you?"

"Dean, I"—

Before Rory could begin to explain—not that she even knew how to explain what had happened in that press conference—she spotted Logan Huntzberger coming their way, a chipper smile plastered on his stupidly pretty face. Great. Just what they needed.

Taking notice of Rory's distracted gaze, Dean looked over his shoulder. "Oh, wonderful. This is great," he exclaimed, marching over to meet Logan, whose smile immediately dropped. "What are you doing here?"

Rory followed behind Dean, tugging on his arm. "Dean, don't do this."

"Am I in trouble?" Logan pressed his palm to his chest, eyes flicking between Dean and Rory.

"No," Rory insisted the same moment Dean said, "Yes."

Reminding Rory of the day they met (which felt like a lifetime ago; she hadn't even played her first match yet), Logan looked at her with a hidden desperation swimming in his hazel eyes. Dean—three inches taller than Logan—was still looming over him, something Rory could only describe as a snarl lifting the corner of his upper lip.

Rory still didn't understand what had happened in that interview. Her mind was playing what that journalist had relayed to her over and over. To her, it didn't make any sense why Logan would say those things. Had he been studying up on her play the same as she had with him? And yes, thinking that he took time out of his own interview to . . . _gush_ about her sent a thrilling tingle down her spine that managed to curl her toes, but she couldn't think about that at the moment. Not when she had to worry about her boyfriend— _Yes_ , Rory thought, _boyfriend. Dean_ —beating up Logan Huntzberger for his unprovoked comments.

Later. She would confront Logan later. On her own. For now, she would let him off the hook.

"You are not in trouble, Logan," Rory said. She pulled on Dean's arm again.

"What? Of course he is," Dean complained as Rory dragged him a step away from Logan.

Rory had never seen Dean like this in their entire relationship. Something about how defensive and plainly aggravated he was about something Rory didn't think was cause for such jealousy frightened her a little bit.

"No, Dean," she stressed. He peered down at her, and she was half-convinced she could see steam billowing out of his nostrils. "He's not. Leave it," she ordered.

Dean sighed, clearly on-edge. He gave in and put his hands up in defeat. "Fine."

"So," Logan said after a more-than-slightly-tension-filled pause, "probably a bad time to bring it up, but I watched you guys play earlier. Congrats on your win."

"You were there?" Rory asked.

"Yeah, I was there."

"That's got to be illegal," Dean chimed, wincing after Rory elbowed him in the side.

"He's actually got a point there, Ace," Logan said in Dean's defence. "But I promise I was not there to cheat. I was merely a fan enjoying a tennis match."

Blood filled the tips of her ears at the sound of her new nickname rolling off of Logan's tongue. She tried her hardest to suppress the smile that was threatening to split her jaw in half by biting down hard on her bottom lip until she was positive it would bruise.

"Excuse me, _Ace_?"

Rory shot Dean a _don't-start-now_ look, surprised at his willingness to leave the subject alone. "Well, thank you for coming. I hope you and Paris are prepared for us. We plan on seriously crushing you in the finals."

"That's if you can beat Jess Mariano and April Nardini," Logan retorted.

Rory's breath hitched, the realisation that they— _she and_ _Dean_ —had made it to the semi-finals at Wimbledon whacking her hard over the head. It felt the same as when Logan's tennis ball had rocketed off of her skull at 150 miles per hour. They were wild cards and they were actually going somewhere. Sure, it was just in mixed doubles—winning (not that she really thought they could, especially if they made it to the finals against Paris and Logan) only got them a few hundred points towards their individual ranks—but it meant something. Not just to her, but to other tennis players who were struggling to gain traction in the sport. Even being the granddaughter of the great Richard Gilmore didn't gain her many favours. Her status was all dependent on her play, and she was finally being taken seriously.

"Look." Logan interrupted Rory's inner monologue, hand waving between her and Dean. "I came to find you guys to invite you to my match later in the day."

Dean scoffed, arm snaking around Rory's shoulders. "We're busy."

"No, we're not. Luke gave us the rest of the day off." Rory side-eyed her boyfriend, wishing he would stop acting so hostile towards Logan. He wasn't a threat. Rory wouldn't allow him to be one. "We'd love to come."

That now-famous, over-the-moon smile returned to Logan's face. "Great. And afterwards, Paris and I were going to have dinner, so if you'd also like to tag along, we'd love to have you with us." Logan winked at Rory as he walked by, causing her heart to lurch against her ribcage. "See you later, Ace. Dean."

Dean's grip on Rory's shoulder tightened protectively, his eyes following Logan until he disappeared from view, and Rory extricated herself before he could crush her. She stood before him, arms folded.

"What was that?" she asked.

Dean looked almost offended. "What?"

"You were acting like such an ass just now."

" _What_? _I_ was acting like an ass. _He_ was the one flirting with you!" Dean defended, running a frazzled hand through his hair. "You're always so oblivious to it, Rory."

Rory stepped back, affronted. True, she had always been a little slow to pick up flirtatious remarks directed towards her, but Logan hadn't been flirting. No, maybe he was. In the back of her mind, she knew he was one-hundred percent flirting with her. He had been seconds away from _kissing_ her the last time they saw each other—not that she'd ever mention to that to anybody. Ever. But he _was_ a flirt. It was almost a part of his job to toy with the hearts of unsuspecting females.

"He's like that with everyone," Rory said. "And it doesn't affect me in any way. You should know this."

She was lying—she could feel it in the pit of her stomach. Logan's words _did_ affect her. How else could she explain forgetting about Dean for over an hour during their competitive training session together. Admitting that, however, was dangerous. Three years of her life had been spent with Dean. A stupid crush (she wasn't even sure if it _was_ a crush; it could have been nothing more than a minute infatuation with a successful tennis player who had decided to take pity on her and pay attention to her) shouldn't ruin that.

"Do you want to go to his match?" Dean asked, sounding tired. He pulled Rory into his arms, resting his head atop hers.

Meekly, Rory nodded. "It'll be fun. It's the men's semi-final. Everyone knows they're the most exciting matches."

Dean sighed and kissed her forehead. Rory's eyes closed instinctively.

"You can go," he decided in defeat. "I'll join you guys for dinner."

"You trust me?"

"Oh, I trust you," Dean said, which made Rory's heart sink a tiny bit out of what she believed what some sort of guilt. "It's him I'm worried about."

"Don't worry about him, Dean. Please. He's not worth it," Rory begged.

Mulling over her request, Dean sighed again. Deeper this time. More pained. "Okay, okay. I won't worry."

Head still against his chest, Rory kissed him through his shirt, ignoring how sticky and . . . _wrong_ it felt to put her mouth on his sweaty uniform.

"Thank you," she said as she wiped the dampness from her lips.


	4. Surprising Revelations

**A/N:** And here it is. Thank you all so much for your support of this story. It's really, really helping me write. Plus, it makes me super happy to know I'm not alone in supporting Rogan all the way. There isn't much left for this particular plot - maybe one or two more chapters. Not sure when they'll be written, unfortunately. I'm currently one week into a six week vacation in England where my WiFi and time are limited.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **A Game of Love | Surprising Revelations**

* * *

Wimbledon was Rory's favourite grand slam of the four. She imagined it was everyone's favourite—how could it _not_ be—but it was especially hers. Her grandfather had sat her down after her first tennis lesson at age six and showed her footage of some old matches, commentating the entire time. He explained the significance of this particular fortnight, how it towered in importance over the other three grand slams. Ever since that moment, Wimbledon had been her special favourite.

She loved the crowds. They were so quiet and considerate. Whenever she scraped enough money together to see US Open matches in New York, the stands were full to the brim of obnoxious, drunk Americans. Their cheers were premature and rude. But here, in the quiet town of Wimbledon, the stands were silent except for when a player gained a point.

Rory had a feeling everyone was holding their breath at this point. What she had told Dean earlier was true. Don't waste your money on the final—come to the semis and see some absolutely breathtaking play. Logan had one match point against his opponent, who just so happened to be ranked No. 3 in the world. It was the fifth set, which meant no tie-break. Logan had to get this service game, otherwise Rory was worried he would be too tired to get ahead in the next game which would lead to him losing the entire match.

The tickets he had provided were left at the entrance for her and Dean, but she was forced to decline the second and go sit by herself. The spot beside her was not empty, though. Wimbledon wouldn't leave a ticket lying around for this match. She was seated near Logan's box. She recognised his sister's blond hair from YouTube videos and replays of Logan's old matches. Next to her was Paris Geller. She hadn't cheered once out loud during the entire match, though Rory had been watching her clench her fist whenever Logan got a point.

From where he was positioned, sun behind him, Logan could have looked up if he so desired and seen Rory staring directly at him, creases lining her forehead. She was sweating out of nerves for him, something she usually only did when Dean was playing (and Novak Djokovic, but he didn't count. She didn't know him). The prickling sensation beneath her arms was getting increasingly uncomfortable as she waited for Logan to serve. She kept trying to discreetly itch her armpits, but was afraid she would miss something important if she became too distracted in easing her discomfort.

Logan decided he was ready to go for it. He retrieved one of the balls in his pocket and spun it in his hand a few times before dropping it to the ground. It bounced once, twice. He grabbed for it, holding the ball tight against his racquet. His opponent was bent at the knees in preparation for what was sure to be a massive serve.

The ball went up, and Rory actually heard herself catch her breath, eyes following the yellow ball as it flew into the air. A loud clang travelled through the court as Logan struck the ball into the net.

Cold sweat ran down Rory's back. She lifted her hand briefly, noticing a slight tremor rattling her fingers. She turned her hand into a fist and focused on the speed of Logan's serve. 158 mph.

"Whoa," Rory breathed. That was fast. It broke Isner's official fastest serve from the Davis Cup earlier that year by five. Had it gone over the net there was no way Logan's opponent would have been able to reach it.

She eyed Logan taking a fresh ball from one of the ball boys, no trace of that carefree smile she'd grown used to seeing on his face. Nobody was smiling in that stadium. Even the air seemed tense.

Returning to the service line, Logan took in a visible breath. His chest rose and fell, arm coming up to wipe sweat from his forehead. Rory almost wanted to turn away. This bit was always hardest to watch no matter her relationship—or lack thereof—with the player. Double-faulting when one was so close to winning the match . . . Rory couldn't imagine the sheer disappointment and exhaustion that no doubt followed.

As Logan was testing the ball, his eyes flicked towards his box. Rory could hear his coach mumbling something. Paris's hand was relaxed against her leg. Then, he did something funny. He looked up at her. His hazel eyes, sunken from so far away, found hers in the sea of people awaiting his triumphant win. Rory kept her gaze locked on Logan. He watched her for only a moment longer before tapping the ball on the grass one last time.

She tried to breathe as he looked away, but her lungs constricted immediately following Logan's ball toss. He needed another serve like the first. Fast, but with slightly more precision and care.

Logan's racquet tore down and his thunderous grunt filled Rory's ears. She watched the ball ricochet off of his racquet in stunned silence at its speed. It soared over the net faster than anything Rory had ever seen, hitting just inside the fault line and bashing loudly into the wall by the linesmen.

Logan's opponent didn't even have time to react. He was standing in place, racquet on the ground.

 _164 mph_ , Rory read on the screen as cheers echoed through the crowds. She followed soon after, getting to her feet and clapping as annoyingly deafening as she could.

After dropping to the grass in exhilaration and shaking the umpire's hand, Logan turned to his audience of supporters and whooped. Like they couldn't help themselves, his eyes found hers once more in the multitude of adoring fans. He cheered one last time, his face scrunched, staring directly at her. She stared right back, hands moving a mile a minute for him.

 **—**

Paris Geller clearly did not appreciate Rory Gilmore's presence outside the press room. She kept looking over at Rory, dressed in what she had originally thought to be an okay shirt-and-skirt ensemble, and shrivelling her nose as if she was wearing nothing more than a burlap sack. Paris was, of course, dressed head-to-toe in designer clothes. Her Kate Spade bag in powder blue rested lightly on the hip of her elegant white dress, and she wouldn't stop tapping the toe of her expensive shoes.

They were silent as they waited for Logan to exit the room. Every now and again, laughs could be heard from inside as he no doubt told some joke or another. Rory thought she maybe heard her name once or twice, but decided she was imagining things. Perhaps when she and Dean returned from this dinner she would try to find Logan's press conference from earlier in the week that he managed to fill with praises for her game.

When it sounded as though the conference was wrapping up, Rory's mobile began to ring. She answered, ignoring Paris's look of disdain thrown in her direction.

"Hello?"

"Looks like I'm going to be a little late to the restaurant."

It was Dean.

"What? Why?" Rory touched a hand to her forehead, moving strands of hair from her eyes. "You aren't trying to get out of this, are you?"

"No, Rory, I'm still coming. I'll just be a little late. Luke needs me to grab something for him in central London before the shops close."

"Fine. I'll see you soon. Be safe."

Dean hung up quickly after that, and Rory put her phone back in her bag.

"You're not special, you know."

Startled, Rory looked up and saw Paris Geller eyeing her curiously. She couldn't believe Paris was actually speaking to her.

"Excuse me?" Rory asked, confused.

Paris tilted her head towards the door behind which stood Logan Huntzberger. "You're not special."

"I was never under the impression I was special," Rory said. She crossed her arms, feeling suddenly overexposed. She was never a fan of confrontation. Especially with strangers who were far more successful than her.

Paris nodded. "Good. He's a player, I'm sure you know that. Just, don't get your hopes up, hon."

Uncrossing her arms, face reddening, Rory frowned. "I've got a boyfriend," she explained. "I'm not interested in Logan." Maybe if she said it enough, it would become true.

But anyway, she would never _cheat_ on Dean. That was something unimaginable. They had agreed when they started dating all that time ago that if one of them ever fell for somebody else while they were together to the degree _not_ cheating became a struggle, they would break up before anything happened. Rory could deal, she thought, with Dean leaving her for somebody else. She couldn't deal with him lying to her about it and going behind her back, though. And she imagined Dean would say the same thing.

"Oh, please," Paris laughed. "Everyone's interested in Logan."

"You're not," Rory pointed out.

Paris showed her left hand upon which, on her third finger, was a large diamond surrounded by rubies. "I'm very taken."

Eyes wide, Rory had to stop herself from grabbing Paris's hand and observing the ring up close. She vaguely remembered reading Paris had gotten married to the owner of a tennis racquet manufacturing company. Doyle Something-Or-Other.

Rory was going to respond that she too was taken. Not married or engaged _taken_ , but three years taken. That had to count for something. Before she could open her mouth, however, the door to the conference room burst open and out popped Logan, that all-consuming smile threatening to swallow his entire body.

"Paris. Ace." He grinned, stepping next to Paris. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Rory. "Getting to know each other?"

"Oh, yes," Rory responded, her own smile tight. She felt hot suddenly. Sticky in her outfit.

"Is Dean joining us?"

Paris decided she would answer the question, nudging Logan's side with her elbow. "Rory's boyfriend has to run some errands in central London. It'll be the three of us for a bit."

"Excellent," Logan said, making Rory's chest tighten. "Excellent."

* * *

Surprisingly, Dean had behaved himself at dinner. Yes, his arm had been slung protectively around Rory's shoulders the entirety of the meal, but he, for the most part, was civil towards Logan. Their dinner conversation had drifted in and out of things pertaining to tennis. Nothing of personal lives was shared, which wasn't a bad thing in Rory's opinion.

Now, two hours after the dinner's completion, Rory stood alone in a tennis court, hair tied up, practicing her serve. She had told Dean when they returned from the restaurant she needed to sleep and had crept—she had the oddest feeling she _needed_ to creep—into her room to find that video of Logan Huntzberger's press conference. After browsing the Internet for a few minutes, she came across the video. It was nearly half an hour long; the thumbnail was a stolen moment from the conference of Logan looking somber, staring at something the camera did not show. Clicking on it had made Rory's heart want to burst out of her chest. Her throat had tightened considerably as it began playing. She watched the entire thing, waiting to hear her name spill from his lips.

" _Logan, there are a lot of spectacular players here at this tournament. You're obviously one of the brightest, but who do you personally feel is the best?"_ The question had been asked by an older gentleman with a very traditional, posh English accent. The crowd waited to hear Logan's answer.

Rory had watched from her chair as Logan's face screwed in thought. She had imagined he was pulling files from the Tennis Database that was no doubt his brain.

" _I'll be honest, you're going to be surprised at my answer,"_ he had said, mouth pulled into such a smile that made Rory want to know everything there was to know about him. She wanted to sit inside his head and dive into his memories—see what happened to him to make him the man with whom she was steadily becoming friends. _"Rory Gilmore is an absolutely fantastic player . . ."_

He _had_ said those things about her. The reporter from earlier wasn't lying. Rory had been stunned as she sat there, witnessing Logan Huntzberger explain to a crowd of similarly stunned reporters and photographers that she was the best player at that year's Wimbledon. A lowly mixed doubles player with a famous grandfather and a tall boyfriend.

Following the video's end, she had come to the realisation she needed to get out of the hotel, so she packed her training gear and came to the courts. Nighttime was nearing in London. The floodlights were blazing, keeping the court lit as the moon slowly took its place in the sky, the sun leaving streaks of orange and pink in its wake. No other players were about. She had the whole place to herself and as she hit balls against the chalk, she tried sorting through the multitude of thoughts that had been whirring inside of her mind since her and Dean's win earlier that day.

She didn't get very far before the sound of the gate to her court rattling distracted her. Dropping the tennis ball in her hand, she approached the gate and spotted a tuft of short, blond hair.

"Need a hand?" Rory asked as Logan struggled to unlatch the lock. He had his racquet bag slung across his body.

Logan startled, straightening at once. He smiled when he saw Rory's arms were folded in amusement. "Not a chance, Ace," he responded, rattling the gate again. "I've definitely got this."

Rory let him flounder for a few seconds longer, helping only when he gave up and shot her an embarrassed smile.

"So, what are you doing out here by yourself?" Logan asked once he was inside. Just like last time, he crouched and began pulling his racquet out.

"I needed to clear my head," she said, keeping eye contact with Logan when he stood up. "What's your excuse?"

"Well," he said, "I wanted to find you."

Shaking her head, Rory poked Logan with the head of her racquet and turned to grab a tennis ball. Obviously this was going to be another training session. She ignored the sudden rise in her body's temperature.

"I don't believe you," Rory said. She watched as Logan, smirking the entire way, stepped casually over the net to the other side. "Why are you really here?"

A glint of something mischievous shone in Logan's hazel eyes. His skin turned milky in the moonlight, his hair shone like silver. With the harsh floodlights hitting him, his face appeared sharp and angled.

He said, "Don't you know?"

Her dream from the other night rushed through her mind. _Don't you know_. The way Logan said it now—the words melted into the pores coating her skin. They manifested themselves in her blood and floated through her veins, becoming a part of her.

He should not be getting to her like this. It made no sense, but she would be lying if she said it didn't enthral her.

Clearing her throat, Rory tried to act as though his words had no effect on her. "Just serve. We can rally back and forth for a bit," she suggested, wondering if Logan could hear the shake in her words as loudly as she could.

"Sounds good," he said. Logan tossed the ball and served it straight to Rory.

They played like that for a good half-hour before Logan said aloud what she had been thinking: "This is really kind of boring."

Rory laughed. "That's really kind of an oxymoron." Logan feigned hurt, his hand smacking his chest right above his heart. Rory rolled her eyes. "What do you suggest we do to spice it up, then?"

"Let's play a game," he said, "but not any kind of game. Last time we served for bragging rights," he reminded her. "This time, let's play for secrets."

He whispered the word _secrets_ in such a way that Rory's flesh became dotted with goosebumps. His figure, as the moon had now stapled itself above them, was shadowed. Wind, soft and warm, blew across them, and his Wimbledon-white clothes wavered against his torso, highlighting the tight muscles beneath.

She was staring. Quickly, Rory raised her head and nodded. Secrets. She could handle spilling a few, couldn't she? Oddly enough, she felt more brave here than she did with even Lane. The idea of Logan knowing some deeply held private information didn't seem to scare her.

"Okay," she agreed. "I'm in."

"Alright, Ace. We'll serve to each other from different areas on the court. If it's a foul, a net ball, or if it's an ace, we have to answer a question asked by the other. Agreed?"

Rory didn't even think about her answer. "Agreed," she said, confident.

"Then let's play."

Because she was already in possession of the ball, Rory went first. She served deep and fast. Logan only just managed to clip the ball with his racquet and sent it towards the fence.

"You didn't let me get that, did you?" Rory checked, eyebrow kinked accusatorially.

Logan laughed as if she were crazy. "Of course not, Ace. You got that one fair and square. Now shoot, you're stalling is making me nervous."

"Fine." Thinking for a moment—Rory had an innumerable of questions she wanted to ask Logan—she decided on the perfect one. "How did you and Paris meet? You guys seem like the epitome of an odd couple. Not including the blond hair."

While retrieving the ball, Logan answered, "We don't have any kind of awesome story for the ages, unfortunately. We met at a tennis camp when we were ten. She really hated me back then." Logan laughed as if recalling a fond memory. Rory didn't know why, but she was overcome by the slightest hint of envy. "Which was totally understandable—I did accidentally hit her with my racquet." He eyed Rory then, and she couldn't help the blush that blossomed over her cheeks. "Over the years, we showed up in the same camps and clubs constantly. One day, a few years back, one of our coaches put us together and we've not been apart since."

Rory couldn't help herself. "So, have you ever slept with her?"

"Oi," Logan reprimanded. "One question, Ace."

Reaching into her pocket, Rory produced a tennis ball and served another ace. She smirked, awaiting her answer.

"That doesn't count," Logan said, but he answered nonetheless. "No, I've never slept with her. That's gross to even think about." He made a _blech_ noise to further his point and took his place on the service line.

An ace. Could she expect anything less?

"What's it like having a mom only sixteen years older than you?"

"Wow, that's . . ." Rory searched for the right word. "Deep. Are we allowed to go that deep?"

"I mean, you don't have to answer if you don't want to," Logan assured her, ruffling his loose, blond waves. "I won't pressure you. But yes, if you'd like to ask me something personal, go right ahead."

Rory decided she would be brave tonight. Regrets be damned.

"I love my mom more than anything in the entire world. She's my rock. Without her, my whole life would crumble. The age difference has never been an issue to me. When she was a teenager, I was too young to know any better, and by the time I grew up a bit more, she was still sixteen years ahead of me.

"I remember the first time somebody made a comment about the fact that my mom had been a teenager when she'd had me. I got so mad I hit them." Logan laughed at that, as did Rory as she played the scene behind her eyes. "First and only time I've ever been sent to the principle.

"Honestly, it doesn't feel any different," she revealed. "I don't know what it's like to have a mom that was fully mature and of a 'proper age' when she gave birth. Sure, we get funny looks every now and again, but I'm used to that. If anything, it's great that she's so young. We kind of get to grow up together, in a way."

Logan seemed satisfied with her answer. "Alright. You're turn."

Somehow, Rory managed another ace. The dream fresh in her mind, she remembered a question she'd been dying to ask. "Your tattoo," she said, pointing with her racquet towards Logan's hip. "What is it and what does it mean?"

Logan raised his eyebrows. "One at a time, Ace," he reminded her.

Lifting his hand, he beckoned her forwards. She complied, walking over to the net. Logan lifted his shirt, revealing his toned, smooth stomach. She eyed his hip and tried to make out the tattoo. It was words written in black typewriter script.

" _Master and Commander_ ," Rory read out loud.

Logan dropped his shirt and Rory lifted her gaze, searching for his eyes. His expression was almost pained. His pupils were dilated, forehead creased. A moment later his face returned to normal, blistering smile and all.

"My turn," he exclaimed, running backwards towards the service line.

Obviously the tattoo meant something extremely personal. She would tell him when she got the nerve to speak that he didn't need to divulge its significance.

Logan's next serve slammed directly into the net. The collision was harsh and loud. Rory jumped, surprised. She half-expected to see a tennis ball shaped hole in the mesh.

"Sorry," Logan apologised. "I'm kind of glad it didn't go over. So, what does it mean"—

—"You don't have to say it," Rory interrupted. "Really. I don't need to know."

"Don't be silly, Ace. It's all part of the game. My dad," he began, trying to sound light and airy—Rory wasn't convinced. "He used to call me Master and Commander. I have sister who's five years older than me, and my dad was thrilled when I turned out to be a boy. Finally, someone to take golfing who wouldn't whine about having to tie up their hair. Finally, someone to whom he could impart all of the Huntzberger wisdom too manly for my sister's delicate ears. Finally, someone to be a _man_."

Rory was completely caught up in Logan's story. There was passion in each of his words. His throat quivered.

" _Master and Commander_ , my father's favourite book. He hates the movie. Thinks Russell Crowe ruined Jack Aubrey's character." Logan paused, realising he'd gone off track. "Anyway, my dad always wanted me to be something great. Not necessarily the commander of a naval ship, but something more than a tennis player. I got the tattoo out of spite, I think, on my eighteenth birthday—the day after I became nationally ranked. I got it to remind myself that even if I'm not doing what my dad wanted to me to do, I'm still turning myself into someone great."

Logan finished his tale with an incredulous laugh. "Not even Paris knows that story."

Heart beating outrageously fast, Rory scrambled to say something clever and reassuring, but came up blank. All she could do was stare at Logan's sullen face and wish she could climb over the net to comfort him.

"Right," he said after a full minute of heavy silence. "I believe it's your serve."

Rory shook her head.

"No, no. I'm giving you a freebie," she said. "I shouldn't have asked that question. I'm sorry."

Logan clicked his tongue. "Please, Ace. This is a game and it's your turn." Reaching down to the grass, he tossed Rory the ball.

She caught it and sighed.

"Okay, fine."

Rory served a foul. She covered her sigh of relief with a yawn. "Your question."

Logan stared at her, deadpan. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"No," Rory emphasised. "Ask your question."

"Why are you with him?"

Logan spoke so quietly, she wasn't sure he had said anything at all. And what she thought he _had_ said sounded so strange to her ears she must have misheard him.

"What?"

Suddenly, Logan was on her side of the court, walking towards her. His racquet was no longer in his hand. Rory stood in stunned silence as he approached her, her heart lodged firmly in her throat.

"Rory." He stood right before her. So close she had to crane her neck to see his eyes. The sound of her name dripping from his lips pulled Rory to full attention. "Why are you with him?"

"Logan, we were having fun. Don't do this."

They weren't having fun. Not really. The tennis court was charged. Palpable energy set Rory's hair on-end. But Logan wasn't allowed to ask this question. And not just because Rory didn't have an immediate answer.

Logan's fingers curled around her wrist. His index finger pressed gently against her palm. She could feel his pulse galloping, each beat striking her like lightning.

"I like you. I shouldn't, but I do."

"No, you don't," Rory insisted, growing increasingly flustered. "You can't."

"Hey, don't tell me what I can and can't do," he said calmly. He stroked her palm. "Why can't I like you?"

Rory searched her head for an answer. "Because you've . . . you're always in bed with supermodels and seeded female tennis players. I am nobody." She also had a boyfriend, but that, at the time, didn't sound like a good enough answer.

"You're Rory Gilmore," Logan said enthusiastically. "You're amazing."

All Rory could think of to say to that was, "Paris said I'm not special."

Logan grunted. "Paris doesn't know what she's talking about. Ace," he said urgently, eyes blazing, "why are you with him?"

It aggravated Rory to no end, but she could not come up with a response. The realisation that she _didn't know_ the answer to Logan's question was frightening her.

"I"—she stopped, reaching for anything. She came up blank. "I don't know," she said finally, rolling her eyes towards the moon. The city smog clouded the stars from view, but she knew they were up there, laughing at her.

"Rory," Logan said for the third time that evening. The force of him calling her by her given name nearly knocked her over. "I like you."

Rory had grown too tired to argue. The match she had played earlier was catching up to her. Gelatine replaced her bones and she felt herself sag under the weight of Logan's confession which, startlingly, she was becoming more inclined to believe each time he said it.

 _I like you_.

"Look," she said, voice trembling. "It scares me. It does—it scares me how easy it is when I'm with you. You make me forget everything. You make me forget _Dean_. It's just you and me when we're together." Giving a voice to the wild thoughts that had been racing around in her mind since she met Logan was relieving some of the tension in her shoulders, as was the mild pressure being applied to the inside of her hand by Logan's calloused finger. "I mean, we've known each other for a week! How is it you're able to replace everything in my head? How do you do it?"

"Huntzberger charm," Logan said breezily, though Rory could tell his throat was clinched.

Despite herself, she laughed, staring at the ground and kicking the grass. Logan still held her by the wrist.

"What do we do?" she asked. She hoped that was enough of an answer. She couldn't provide anything more.

Logan let go of her, and her arm swung back against her leg. She watched him clench and unclench his hands. He was thinking. Seconds passed by without either of them saying anything. Rory was sure their hearts had ceased beating. Given up after the stress of this conversation. Then, Logan sucked in a deep breath through his nose, calling Rory's attention back to his moonlit face. He was smiling, but his lips were lined in white. His eyes were sad.

"Nothing," he said. "We do nothing. This is new territory for me, Ace. I can't expect you to leave your boyfriend of three years for some guy you just met—even if I am quite obviously the better choice."

The tack-on joke made Rory laugh despite herself.

"Nothing?" she repeated, her heart deflated.

"For now. I have the strangest feeling I'll still like you tomorrow. And probably the day after that, and so on and so forth," he professed, lips curled in a humourless half-smile. "You have time to sort through things."

Rory's head was spinning. Of all the things she imagined happening to her at Wimbledon, this scenario had never even crossed her mind. Remembering back to the day she arrived, she was still very much content in her relationship with Dean. But since getting off that plane things had been spiralling out of control. Meeting Logan had sparked something dangerous inside of her—the sense that she wasn't truly _happy_ , but that she was too comfortable to move. Stuck in familiarity. The more time she spent with Logan, the more she became aware of how boring life in Stars Hollow had become. Maybe she had always known, only now she realised how badly it bothered her.

"Time is good," Rory said, though she wasn't so sure she believed herself.

"Yeah, it is," Logan agreed, and she heard the same uncertainty in his voice.

Silently, it was decided their game was over. Both packed their bags and headed for the exit. Outside of the training centre, Logan again took Rory's wrist. Her blood boiled inside her veins, awakening her. She stared up at Logan and held her breath in suspense.

"I'm sorry if I ruined everything," he said quietly. He tilted his head to the side, lifting his other hand to stroke a loose strand of hair out of Rory's eyes. She blinked repeatedly until he dropped his hand.

"You didn't ruin everything," she assured him. "If anything, I think you've fixed some things. Strange as that may sound."

Nodding, Logan released her wrist and turned to walk away, leaving Rory standing still, watching him disappear from view.

"Hey!" she called out. Logan turned expectantly. "Why'd you say those things about me in that press conference?"

Rory couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw a genuine smile lift Logan's cheeks.

"Come on, Ace," he said before shifting his weight and heading back from where he came. "You should be able to figure that one out on your own."

This time, Rory didn't wait for him to almost disappear before walking back to her hotel. When she arrived, she headed straight for her mother's room and knocked on the door. Lorelai opened it after the first couple knocks. Her hair was messy and her eyes looked glued shut, but when she saw Rory standing in the doorway she stepped back and allowed her entrance, no questions asked.

Rory went to the bed, glad Luke wasn't anywhere to be seen, and waited for her mom to return.

"What's up, kid?" she asked, sitting next to Rory.

Mouth dry, Rory spilled everything that had happened that evening with Logan. If there was one person that made her feel safer than the blond tennis player, it was her mother. No doubt about it. She hadn't lied when she had said Lorelai was her rock. And her rock listened patiently as Rory spoke, face scrunched in concentration.

"Mom, what do I do?" Rory begged when she finished.

Lorelai thought for a few minutes. To Rory—poor, stressed Rory—they felt like eons.

"You like him too, don't you." It wasn't a question, and Rory nodded guiltily. She felt like she was going to be sick. "Honey, these sorts of things happen. Trust me, you are not the first woman to fall for another man."

"But I've only known him for a few days. How is this possible?" Rory choked.

Lorelai pulled Rory in for a hug and stroked her hair. "You're human. That's all I got."

"What about Dean, though? Our partnership will be ruined. Professionally and personally."

"I like Dean, I do," Lorelai said, "but you were only eighteen when you started seeing him. It's perfectly okay to not still be totally head-over-heels in love with him, Rory. Just, don't waste time on Dean if you're not sure about him anymore. Life's too short to be stuck and it wouldn't be fair on either of you if you stayed with him because you're too scared to take a risk with this Logan guy."

"So, what should I do?" Rory asked desperately. She wanted her mother to give her all the answers.

Lorelai huffed a small laugh. "I can't tell you what to do. You're an adult. You've got to make your own decisions. Just know that no matter what, you're not the bad guy, even if either of those boys makes you think that you are."

"But Dean and I are so close to winning this whole thing."

"If Dean storms off and sabotages both of your chances at winning Wimbledon, he's a much worse guy than I think either of us thought him to be and you're better off without him." Lorelai squeezed Rory tight before releasing her. "Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

Rory nodded. She removed her trainers and jacket and snuggled beneath the covers beside her mother.

"Thanks," she said, staring up at the ceiling. Her mind felt less foggy now.

"No problem, kid."

That night, Rory again dreamed of Logan. They were standing in the same hotel pool. Peering at his hip she could see the words "Master and Commander" clearly on his skin. Bravely, she reached into the water and touched the scarred tissue, her fingertips pulsing as she grazed his flesh.

"You are special," he told her, hand coming beneath her chin and lifting her head. His hazel eyes were burning. "You are."

* * *

 **A/N 2:** How's that for some Rogan action? Let me know what you thought!


	5. The Gloves Are Off

**A/N:** Happy Sunday, everyone! Be honest, how many of you thought I'd given up on the story? Sorry if you had. As you know, I was in England for six weeks and then school started, so I've been busy and not really in the mood to write. Finally got this chapter done, though! That's exciting. This is the penultimate chapter. The last one should hopefully (fingers crossed my professors don't give me too much homework) be done and published by next week, so keep an eye out for the finale.

Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and enjoying this story. It's been a lot of fun to write. To Rory and Logan!

* * *

 **A Game of Love | The Gloves Are Off**

* * *

By the beginning of the third set, Rory's arms were tired. Beyond tired. They were dead. Nothing more than flimsy limbs hanging either side of her torso, barely capable of lifting her racquet. Heat filled her senses entirely, the London sun being uncharacteristically visible that afternoon. Its presence was making this match incredibly difficult. Sweat was a given during a tennis match, but Rory was no longer merely sweating. Perspiration was flowing through her pores as if someone had forgotten to turn off a faucet inside of her.

They were down a set. Mariano and Nardini snuck up on them during the second and managed to get the set 6 - 4. Something wasn't right, Rory could feel it bubbling inside of her chest. Her and Dean hadn't been as in synch as they typically were. She couldn't read him anymore. His body language seemed foreign, his footwork an unsolvable puzzle. They kept going for the same ball, nearly knocking into each other. She imagined the commentators were laughing at them. Luke must have been shaking his head in absolute disappointment, but Rory refused to look over at their box.

She was focused, she was. Her mind was wholly on the match. But lingering in the back of her head was the conversation she had last night with both her mom and Logan Huntzberger. Hard though it was, she kept pushing away the desire to forget about the match and pay attention to her personal problems. Unfortunately, she didn't seem to be doing such a great job. Playing with Dean suddenly felt like playing with a complete stranger, which wasn't good on several levels.

Why had Logan felt the need to spill his guts to her last night?

As Rory sat on the bench sipping her energy drink, waiting for the umpire to call time and send them back on to the court for the changeover, she began contemplating his motives. Idea after idea flitted through her mind, but she kept going back to the same conclusion: He needed to get under her skin so she would be frazzled enough during the semis to lose the match, thus securing his and Paris's spot as mixed doubles champions.

"Time."

Gulping one last desperate bit of her drink down, Rory capped it and stood, watching Dean take his place a few steps behind the service line. She was too embarrassed to look at him as she passed, too frustrated with herself for getting caught up with Logan Freaking Huntzberger. He was a scumbag player through and through. What on earth had made her think she was any different to his other conquests? By revealing all those secrets to her last night, he had gained her trust and made her think he was actually interested. And she had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. She was such a cliche, it hurt her brain.

Behind her, Rory heard the familiar sound of a ball bouncing and shook her head, clearing her mind of all Logan-related things once and for all. She twirled her racquet, staring down April Nardini, and held her breath as Dean served the ball.

* * *

Rory gathered one last handful of water and splashed it over her face, scrubbing her cleanser-soaked cheeks until she felt they were clear of suds. Turning off the water, she stared at herself in the mirror. _The image of a true loser_ , she thought to herself, noticing her defeated blue eyes and sunken cheeks.

She wanted to cry. More than anything, she wanted to curl into a ball and sob until she was able to fall asleep and forget about the day's horrific events. As she watched her reflection in the stained mirror of the women's locker room, she saw her lips tremble and her eyes well with tears. But she wouldn't let go here. Not now. She would be patient and wait until she returned to her hotel room before breaking down.

Luke wanted to see her. When the umpire called the match— _game, set, match, Nardini and Mariano_ —Rory spotted him nodding his head at her slowly, his signal they needed a talk. His face showed no emotion, but Rory could only imagine he was angry and disappointed, much like herself.

It was her fault they lost. Her fault they were no longer heading for the final. Mixed doubles or not, Wimbledon had been her dream since she was six. Because of her own stupidity, her first opportunity to reach her lifelong goal had been slashed to bits. Now she had to wait another year. She had to put in more training, extra hours. Sacrifice just a little bit more of herself so she could get here next summer and really dominate. Maybe by then she'd be good enough for a chance at the singles title. Or maybe she'd never be good enough to return, not even for mixed doubles.

Gripping the basin, Rory clamped her eyes shut. _Dean_. Poor Dean. She had so badly let him down. He didn't deserve this send-off. God, the look on his face when she served that last ball into the net—it would haunt her nightmares, she was sure.

Rory sucked in a deep breath, shaking her head in a meek attempt to hold back the tears threatening to appear at the corners of her eyes. Letting go of the basin carefully, clenching and unclenching her hands to relieve a bit of the ache that had started during the match, the young tennis player backed away from the sink and turned towards her bags. It was time to change out of her sweat-soaked outfit and face Luke.

Once showered, Rory took her time getting her civilian clothes on. She strayed far away from anything white, sticking to dark colours. Luke was waiting for her, she knew, but the idea of having a talk with him was causing her stomach to twist in the severest ways. If it were up to her, she would never leave the locker room. But being there—where April Nardini came after her following her and Mariano's victory—reminded her just as much of her failure and she finally packed her bags and headed for the door. However, upon exiting the locker room, Rory wished she had stuck with her original plan to remain there for eternity.

Logan Huntzberger stood leaning against the wall opposite the women's locker room, arms folded, face pinched into a concerned expression. He was wearing his Wimbledon whites and his eyebrows were pulled together, forcing lines to appear on his forehead, and he was biting his bottom lip. Rory couldn't help but applaud his superb acting skills, he actually looked somewhat concerned.

"What do you want?" she heard herself demand, her own forehead contorted in a mixture of humiliation and rage.

Spotting her, Logan pushed himself off of the wall and took a step towards her. Rory immediately stepped back, her bags hitting the locker room door with an awkward clunk.

"I"— Logan paused, appearing suddenly to be unsure of himself.

"Well, isn't this a sight," Rory commended. "The great Logan Huntzberger at a loss for words. Have you come to beg forgiveness for your sins?"

Confusion washed over Logan. He ran a quick hand through his blond hair, causing it to rise in certain places. Rory refused to admit that he looked even remotely god-like.

"What are you talking about?"

Rory scoffed. "It's okay, Logan," she assured him, "I lost. You can tell me the truth."

"The truth?" he repeated, confounded.

"Yeah, the truth. You know, the truth about how you got close to me and all so I would lose focus on both my relationship and my game," Rory supplied harshly. "Congratulations, you butt-faced miscreant. It all paid off in the end."

Rory made to walk away triumphantly, but her bags had managed to get caught in the doorframe to the locker room. Ungracefully, the angry tennis player lunged forward, freeing her gear and smacking into Logan. The pair knocked against the wall.

This exit had turned from dramatic to ditzy far too quick for Rory's liking.

"Ow," she mumbled, stumbling away from her betrayer who was in the midst of rubbing the back of his head.

"Ace"— he began, but at the sound of that word, Rory forgot completely about the pain running through her shoulder and remembered at once how angry she was.

"No," she interrupted, winded. The day was catching up to her in full force. Everything that had gone wrong was bubbling to the surface. She was tired, beaten, and really didn't want to hear Logan's excuses. "You are _not_ allowed to call me that. I told you, you won. Your position as champion of the tennis world is secure. Now leave me alone."

Rory re-shouldered her bags and tried to move passed Logan, but he grabbed her arm.

"Let go of me," she ordered.

Logan shook his head. "No. Not until you tell me what the _hell_ is going on."

She really didn't want to be there anymore, especially not when Logan was pleading with her using his stupidly gorgeous eyes, but there was a determination in his tone Rory knew not to test.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Really, I swear to God I don't," Logan insisted. "Please," he pleaded, "just tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it."

"Last night!" Rory boomed, at the end of her rope. She couldn't take this anymore. "Last night, when you were telling me all those wonderful things about yourself to gain my trust. To get in my head. It worked. You got in there, and now me and Dean are going home and you are Paris are heading for the championships. Would you get out of my way now?"

In the midst of her explanation, Logan had released her wrist, but he was still blocking her exit. Eyes wide, the blond boy stood motionless, mouth half-open. Rory was flushed with anger and embarrassment and exhaustion. All she wanted was for Logan to move so she could pack her things and go home to Stars Hollow. She missed Paul Anka, her fluff-ball of a dog who was currently being watched over by the neighbour. She missed Lane. Her bed. Her coffee machine. It had taken this long, but homesickness had finally snagged her. London had worn her down.

"You think I said those things last night just to mess with you?" Logan clarified, voice soft and almost broken. He frowned now, deeper than when she had stepped out of the locker room. More harsh and betrayed than concerned. "You think it was all just some ploy to get the stupid mixed doubles title? Rory, how could you think that?"

Rory's head was two seconds from exploding. Suddenly, she didn't know what to think.

"It's true, isn't it?" she said, watching the floor. "You're the star tennis player who can get any girl he wants. I don't fit in with you at all."

"Rory."

Snapping her head up, Rory blinked. Logan was standing in front of her, peering down at her. Instead of looking guilty—or even proud—he looked warm. Tender. Again, he took her wrist and Rory was transported back to the practice courts last evening. His touch was hot, nearly burning her sweaty skin.

"Ace, I promise you there was no ploy." He cleared his throat, a small smile toying at the corners of his mouth. "There _is_ no ploy. I wasn't lying last night. I'm not some evil mastermind. Everything I told you was the truth."

"Why should I believe you?" Rory asked, throat tight. There was still so much going on—Luke, the plane-ride home, _Dean—_ but Rory pushed it all away and kept her focus on the problem at hand.

"Why shouldn't you?" he countered. Rory opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by Logan's huffed laugh. "No, never-mind. Don't answer that. Just—you should believe me because I'm asking you to. I don't have a great track record, I know, but trust me when I say that meeting you has changed everything. Because really, it has changed _everything_."

Maybe it was her tiredness catching up with her, or maybe it was simply the undeniable sincerity in Logan's words. Either way, Rory found herself closing her eyes and leaning into Logan, resting her forehead on his chest. She breathed in, caught up in the scent of his laundered clothes mixed with what she assumed was just him. A peace washed over her as she stood there. She couldn't help her smile as Logan dropped her wrist and gathered her in his arms, his chin gently placed on the top of her head.

Logan's bemused question broke the calm moments later. "Butt-faced miscreant?"

Looking up at him, Rory grinned—she couldn't help it, she needed to grin—ready to explain her insult. Before she could, though, loud, stomping footsteps assaulted her ears. Extracting herself, she saw Dean rushing their way. His was face was streaked red with fury and his eyes were locked directly on Logan.

"Dean"—Rory started, holding her hands up protectively.

He didn't seem to hear her. He pushed through, separating Rory from Logan even further. His back was to Rory, and, thanks to the one foot height difference between them, she could no longer see Logan.

"Dean," Rory said once more, poking her index finger hard between his shoulder blades. Dean's blazing eyes met hers. He looked more fiercely angry than she had ever seen him. It frightened her. "He didn't do anything."

Dean sneered, a humourless laugh dripping from his lungs. "Is that so?" he asked rhetorically. He looked back at Logan. "I came to find you. We were supposed to meet with Luke immediately after the match. Now I see why it's taken you so long to get there."

"Whoa, buddy, I don't know what you're insinuating"—Logan was interrupted by Dean's sardonic, bitter tone.

—"Oh, you don't? I'll tell you. I'm insinuating that you and Rory have been having an affair behind my back since we arrived in London. There. Clear enough for you?"

"What?" Rory blanched. This was unbelievable. "How dare you. I would never"—

—"You wouldn't?" Dean said, focusing on her. "Something's been off, Rory. Ever since this guy hit you in the back of the head with that ball. Don't lie to me."

Logan's hand clasped on Dean's shoulder, tearing him away from Rory. It happened too quickly for Rory to do anything. Dean's arm drew back, his fist clenched. There was the resounding crack of broken bones—whose, Rory couldn't be sure—and Logan fell back, hitting the floor with a loud thwack that echoed down the hallway. Rory fell with him to her knees, watching as blood gushed from his nose and ran through his clothes. The crisp, white uniform turned the colour of a deep wine before Rory's eyes.

"Rory, I . . ." Dean's voice faded.

"Not now, Dean," she fumed, hand cupping Logan's cheek. "He's not waking up. Call 999."

"Rory"—

Rory's head jerked up. "Dean. 999. Now."

* * *

He was going to be fine. No fractures or breaks, just a bad bruise. He would have trouble breathing for a little while and it would hurt badly, but he was going to be fine. His coach had already been to the hospital, asking Logan to reconsider playing tomorrow. Despite the pain he must have been feeling, he merely laughed and said _of course I'm playing._ Nothing was going to take the Wimbledon Championship trophy away from him.

Rory sat on Logan's hospital bed with a wet cloth in her hand, wiping away at the remainder of the crusted blood around his nose. He winced every now and again, but otherwise kept quiet. Mostly, he was smiling. A gentle smile, barely visible. Still, it went straight through Rory, warming her insides and sending her pulse soaring.

"Someone should be coming by soon with a change of clothes," Rory told him when she was finished. She plopped the pink flannel in a bowl of water by the bed and brushed her forefinger down the swollen bridge of his nose, watching as his eyes squinted. "It's already starting to bruise."

"Hey." Logan clutched her hand, causing her breathing to stop short. "I'm fine."

Rory nodded. "You might be, but I don't think he is." She whispered the word _he_. "I need to go see him."

"Yeah, I think you do," Logan agreed, releasing her hand.

Standing, Rory gave him a discreet, sad smile before retreating to find Dean. He was at the opposite end of the ward. The doctor was just leaving as Rory approached.

"What's the prognosis?" she asked quietly, spotting a cast wrapped around Dean's right arm. It ended just below his elbow. A fresh wave of vexation spiked Rory's veins.

"Broken in three places," Dean explained tightly. "If I work hard and go to physical therapy, the doctor says I should be able to still play."

Rory kept her place at the end of the bed. She stared at the cast. "What the hell were you thinking," she said. She moved her eyes to Dean's. "Really, what the hell? What did you think you could achieve by hitting him?"

Dean shrugged. "Why am I the one being attacked here?"

"Because you're the one who decided to punch somebody who didn't deserve it the day before his big match. And look what it did. You might be done with tennis now because of your stupidity."

"Don't call me stupid," Dean spat. He leapt from the bed, towering over Rory. "I was justified in my actions. That bastard deserved it."

Rory pressed her open hands on Dean's chest and pushed him back. "God, no he didn't!"

"You've fallen for him, Rory," Dean argued. "I can see it. And he's eating it up. How long, huh? How long have you two been screwing around behind my back?"

Rory shoved him again, so hard he landed on the bed, arms flailing. "I would _never_ cheat on you. _Never_. Do you understand me? Never. We've been through so much, Dean, why would you think I'd do something so cheap."

Silence surrounded the pair for a moment. Rory could hear her heavy breaths as they exited her mouth.

"But you like him."

Rory sighed, a sliver of guilt rising in her belly. "Yes. And I'm sorry for that. I am."

"Please, Rory. Save it."

"No, I need to explain"—

—"You really don't. I get it. Look, I don't think we should play together anymore. I'll tell Luke when he stops by that I want out."

Things hadn't been right between her Dean for a while, she understood that. Since she met Logan Huntzberger, Rory had been flipping through their three-year relationship. It was easy now to spot the glaring red flags that she once was so blind to. He was controlling and distant, jealous and needy. Inconsistencies Rory could never entirely wrap her head around. Still, hearing Dean call it, after everything, made Rory's tongue feel heavy and her eyes burn. Blinking, Rory coughed to clear her throat and jolted her head up and down once in agreement.

"We never fought," she murmured, picking at the blood beneath her nails.

"I know," Dean conceded. "You can leave now."

 _So that's it, then_ , Rory thought to herself, _three years of my life, gone. Just like that_.

Rory backed away and gripped the curtain surrounding Dean's bed. She looked him over. "Good luck," she said as she exited. "With everything."

* * *

 **A/N 2:** I do not like version of Dean very much. Just putting that out there.

Hope this chapter wasn't too OOC. It's one of my fears that I'm not writing these characters properly. Too late now to really change anything, but I'm still slightly worried.

Thanks again!


	6. Win, Lose, or Draw

**A/N:** How to apologise for this final chapter taking so long to publish . . .

Words could not express how sorry I am. To those of you who have been waiting patiently (and even to those who have been gritting your teeth in aggravation), I am truly, truly sorry. My last days in England got very busy, and school was waiting for me when I came back to America. Then, whenever I found time to write, I was itching to write for Stranger Things, because those small one-shots took only a couple of hours to write and upload (and because I got really obsessed with Nancy and Jonathan).

But now the reboot is here, and I have so many feelings. I knew I had to just sit and write this. So, after too many months, here it is. Welcome to the final part of _A Game of Love_. I sincerely hope the long break has not driven anybody away, but if it has, I completely understand. I sometimes lose interest in stories when it takes too long for updates as well.

Thank you to everybody has been reading and supporting this story from the beginning. It was so much fun (really, so much fun) to combine Rory and Logan and tennis. I hope this chapter is what you were looking for.

Watch out for some Rogan quotes, and if you're feeling extra lucky, look out for two lines I stole from the movie _Wimbledon_. Also, four months late, congratulations Andy Murray on your second Wimbledon Championship. You deserved it.

Here's looking at you, Kid!

 _P.S. I changed the spelling from "racquet" to "racket" in this chapter. Just for fun, and because I was starting to feel like a prick spelling it the other way._

* * *

 **A Game of Love | Win, Lose, or Draw**

* * *

Luke, her mother, and Rory sat in a cafe near the courts. Each had a black coffee in front of them. Steam rose from the mugs in wisps, wafting upwards and disappearing as it passed by Rory's wandering eyes. She had left Dean a few hours ago to his misery. After Luke showed up at the hospital to discuss his future career, he found Rory talking to Logan and stole her away once Paris stopped by to take him back to his hotel room.

Mostly, they had been sitting in silence, but Rory could tell her mother was desperate to find out what exactly happened.

"Just ask, Mom. Stop fidgeting," Rory sighed, setting her mug down a bit too harshly. Other patrons inside the small cafe turned their eyes briefly towards their table, but looked away when they saw nothing particularly interesting.

Rory kept waiting to feel depressed, or at least overwhelmingly sad. Three years—she was with Dean for three years. She thought, for the majority of those three years (she only began questioning her feelings two weeks ago when they arrived in London), that she was madly in love with him. An emotional attack seemed almost necessary. But hours had passed since she said goodbye to Dean and she had yet to shed a single tear, not counting the two times her eyes had begun watering.

 _I'm a sociopath,_ she decided, letting her finger twirl on the rim of her mug. _Only explanation_.

Lorelai placed a warm hand on Rory's shoulder, a misty gleam in her eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Oddly enough, I'm fine," Rory admitted, shrugging off her mother's hand. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling, but I'm not upset or anything."

Luke grunted. "I think it's good you two parted ways," he said stoically, squaring his shoulders. "You were always the better player, the better partner. It's for the best."

Rory and Lorelai shared a quick look before bursting into a fit of laughter that lasted so long, Rory's stomach was in knots by the time she and her mother managed to calm themselves. Wiping stray tears from the corners of her eyes, Lorelai pinched Luke's cheek before he could turn away.

"What?" he asked, annoyed. He crossed his arms and frowned.

"Nothing, nothing," Lorelai gasped, hand dramatically clutching her chest. "I just don't think I've ever heard you be so . . . so _paternal_ before."

Rory nodded her head in agreement.

Over the years since he began coaching her, Luke had become something of a father-figure, up there with her grandfather. He protected her from the nasty things and praised her like a proud dad. When her mother and Luke began seeing each other, the fatherly notions piled up until people started believing Luke was her true father. But he was a gruff, quiet, manly man. An athlete through and through. Getting him to show his feelings—to express his affection for Rory or Lorelai—was difficult and a rarity. But every now and again he would slip and display his affections. Then pay dearly for the lapse.

"I just can't believe Dean punched him," Lorelai said, saving Luke from any more taunting. "I mean, I've known him to get angry before, he's a jealous kid, but punching? Logan seemed more like the punching type, not Dean."

What her mother said was true. Rory had been expecting Logan to throw the first punch, should the opportunity for a fist fight ever present itself. He put himself forth as the prime candidate with all of his macho interviews and flirting. Typical bad boy. Never in a million years would Rory have thought Dean, her supposedly kind-hearted boyfriend, was capable of potentially ruining his tennis career by waving his fists around haphazardly.

"They're both going to be okay, right?" Lorelai asked, snapping Rory out of her reverie.

"Um, yeah. I think so," she said. "Well, maybe. Dean broke his hand in three places and he probably shocked his wrist pretty bad. Doctor's not sure what the outcome will be. Of course, Dean's playing it off like nothing happened."

"And what about Logan?"

Hearing his name for the second time in casual—well, maybe not _casual_ , but something not too far off—conversation made Rory feel odd. How quickly her life had changed in not only the past fortnight, but in just the past three days was mad. Out with the old, in with the new. For how slowly her life had been progressing before she arrived at Wimbledon, she was surprisingly relaxed with the sudden modifications.

"Bruised face and ego, but fine. No concussion or anything from the fall, which is good."

"And you? How are you?"

The question came from Luke. Rory stared at him, confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Kid," her mother jumped in, "you're life has just drastically altered. You broke up with your boyfriend of three years because you've been swept off your feet by one of the most promising young tennis stars of the twenty-first century _and_ you're out a mixed doubles partner. Are you okay?"

"You might not believe it, but I feel good," she promised. "'O brave new world' and such."

"Is that a quote?" Lorelai implored, taking a final sip of her coffee. "It sounds like a quote."

"Yes, mother, it's a quote. Shakespeare. _The Tempest_. Act V scene i," Rory explained. "We watched the 1980 movie version a few years ago."

"Oh, the one with all the really weird half-naked people on a beach?"

Luke spluttered out a mouthful of coffee. "What?"

"Hey, don't mock," Rory reprimanded. "But yes. That one."

"Wasn't it a book, though?"

"Wasn't what a book, Mom?"

" _Brave New World_ ," she clarified. "I feel like I've seen it on bookshelves. Are we sure Shakespeare didn't steal the line from this book?"

Rolling her eyes, Rory held her breath for a moment to stop herself from laughing aloud. "Aldous Huxley most definitely borrowed from Shakespeare. His novel was published 322 years after _The Tempest_ was first performed."

"God, how do you pull this stuff from your brain like that?" Lorelai joked. "I swear," she said, looking at Luke. "Sometimes I think I brought home the wrong baby from the hospital."

* * *

Later that evening, Rory was sitting in front of her computer, browsing the internet for talks of her and Dean's exit from Wimbledon and each other's lives. It was torture. Painful seeing the photographs of her and her former partner slapping hands as they won a point, heart-wrenching reading old interviews of theirs as they explained why they worked so well as a team. She managed to drop a few tears as she scrolled through articles new and old, and she supposed the slight hollow feeling in her chest was due to the break up, so maybe she wasn't a sociopath after all.

It kept hitting her like a massive, invisible wave. She and Dean were done. Months of her life were now going to transform into distant memories she would eventually struggle to conjure up when asked about her journey to her first Grand Slam tournament. All because a boy with sandy blond hair nearly knocked her out with a tennis ball during training.

Thinking of Logan gave Rory a sinking feeling in her belly. Her toes curled and her cheeks heated, but what if all of the drama that had unfolded since they met was an indicator that they would never last as a couple? What if they had lost all of the excitement before they ever actually got together?

She kept wondering as she scrolled through articles if she was sacrificing herself by choosing Logan over Dean. By choosing a boy over her career. But then her rationality would kick in and she would remember that Dean had never made things easy on her, and he had done a good job of ruining his own career the moment he allowed his anger to control him. Besides, she wasn't giving up tennis for Logan. If anything, no Dean to worry about meant the prospect of becoming a successful solo tennis player. She was free now to focus on herself in every possible way. Logan was just a bonus.

Tomorrow, she would board a plane for Connecticut and begin a new chapter of her life that involved becoming the best damn female singles player in the world.

As if the boy could read her mind, Rory's phone buzzed beside her. Picking it up off the desk, she checked the caller ID—Logan. Her heart skidded to a halt and she hiccupped a lame excuse for a breath. Her heart stuttering out of time, she pressed the green answer button on her touch screen and brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" She sounded like she had just run a 100-miler marathon. Closing her eyes, she focused on breathing steadily. _In and out, in and out_.

"Ace, how are you doing?" Logan's voice came out stuffed, like he was in the midst of a bad cold.

A fresh surge of guilt broke over her. The memory of Dean's fist cracking as it met Logan's nose played for the hundredth time in her head. She could still smell the blood. The scent of it rising in her nostrils made her stomach churn.

"You still there, Ace?" Logan checked.

Gathering her thoughts, Rory said quickly, "Yes, yeah, I'm still here. I'm okay."

Despite everything that had happened to him that day, Logan managed to laugh. The noise was light and comforting. "Good. That's good to hear."

"And you?" Rory asked, though she knew even if he answered positively, he was lying. It had never happened to her, but she imagined getting socked in the face, especially by someone as strong as Dean, did not feel very nice.

"I'm missing you," he said softly, and Rory's heart plummeted into her belly. "Come over."

"Come over where?" Rory breathed, unsure of why she was whispering. Nobody else was in her hotel room. But she felt as if speaking any louder would somehow disturb the connection, and she couldn't have that.

"Come over to me," he clarified. "I'm only a few levels up from you."

Maybe it should have taken her longer to respond. Maybe it was supposed to, considering how recently she ended things with Dean. But Rory never cared much for etiquette.

"I'll be there soon," she said.

The line went dead, and Rory stood from the desk. She walked to the lone, full-length mirror in her room and examined her reflection. She was tired—it had been a long day—and the purple shadows beneath her blue eyes told a similar story. Her hair was in need of a proper wash, as was her face. She had a feeling Logan wouldn't mind her dishevelled appearance, though. He seemed to like her enough when she was sweating profusely from the London heat during practice. The post-breakup look she was sporting probably wouldn't bother him at all.

Dressed in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt with a faded stamp of a cup of coffee emblazoned on it, Rory Gilmore stepped from her hotel room and walked towards the elevator, a bubble of nervous excitement expanding in her stomach. The elevator ride was slow, but Rory, in her rational mind, knew it was an illusion. Nobody else joined her on her trek upwards, which she was glad for. The emptiness of the elevator meant she could have a mental pep talk with herself about not screwing this whole Logan thing up.

By the time the elevator dinged and the doors opened, she had somewhat gathered her erratic thoughts. This changed, however, the closer she got to Logan's room. Approaching the large door to his hotel room, Rory felt bathed in nerves. Her teeth were chattering, her fingers vibrating. It was as if she were about to walk on to the court in the middle of a Connecticut winter. Lifting her quaking wrist, she tapped on the door three times, wondering if she had ever felt this level of anxiety with Dean.

Probably not.

Definitely not.

As the door swung open, Rory was treated to a sight. Logan's bruised face looked worse than it had when she left him at the hospital. She could imagine all of the news stories tomorrow covering the match would be speculating what had happened. Would Logan tell them after the match, win or lose? No, he wouldn't. He may act above it all, but Rory had been witness multiple times to a gentle side of the injured man in front of her. He wouldn't drag Dean's name through the mud to boost his own ego.

"Hey," he lulled, reaching out for Rory's trembling hand. He squeezed and pulled her into the room. The door closed with a heavy _click_. Logan walked backwards, leading Rory further inside. "Stop looking at me like that."

Rory followed his lead as blood settled beneath her skin, casting a rosy hue over her complexion. As they continued walking, Rory noticed how much bigger his room was than hers. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a kitchen, a lounge, and an extravagant bathroom complete with an egg-shaped bathtub and separate shower that looked like it could fit five people. Logan led her slowly to his bedroom and sat them down on the comforter. Together, they sunk into the mattress.

"I said stop," Logan persisted, his hazel eyes pleading.

Startled, Rory turned her attention to Logan. "Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"How am I looking at you?" she asked, surprised at how normal she sounded. She was sitting on Logan Huntzberger's bed as he held tight to her hand the night before he took the court at the Wimbledon Men's Singles Championship. How she was not melting in a starstruck puddle on the floor was beyond her comprehension.

Logan's mouth twisted upwards in a small half-smile. "Like I have a huge bruise marring most of my face."

"Well, you do."

"Yeah, but you don't have to look at me like I do."

"So, I should just look at your mouth? The only part of your head not currently black," she suggested, stringing her eyebrows together playfully.

This was relaxing, slipping into a banter-filled conversation with Logan. Over the past couple of weeks these verbal sparring matches had been her way of floating down from the stress that came with being a professional tennis player.

"I'd be okay with that," he agreed. "How about this, we just stare at each other's mouths." He furthered his proposition by shifting his gaze towards the bottom half of her face. "Yeah, I like this. Let's do this."

"Logan . . ." Rory started, but she didn't know what to say.

Logan pumped her hand once before releasing it. He returned his eyes to her own, and Rory couldn't stop her head from tilting to one side. Like a dog waiting for its owner to give it a treat.

"Look," he said, the atmosphere growing increasingly somber, "Ace, I'm sorry about all of this. I know everything's messed up, and I know I've not done anything to help matters."

"No, you really shouldn't be apologising for anything. _I'm_ the one with the crazy ex-boyfriend who punched you for no reason."

"Well, he had a reason," Logan proposed.

"What reason?" Rory challenged, one eyebrow kinked. She had brought her head back up. "We didn't do anything wrong."

They hadn't, had they? There had been no kissing, definitely no sex. Just copious amounts of flirting and secret sharing that happened all under Dean's nose.

On second thought, maybe Logan had a point.

Logan shrugged, his hands out in front of him as if he were the scales of justice in human form. "I fell hard for his girlfriend, for one," he counted, "then, his girlfriend, and correct me if I'm wrong, fell hard for me too. So, all in all, he had reason to punch me."

Annoying though it was to admit, Logan's short list—a list that caused Rory's stomach to warp with childlike nerves, because here was womaniser Logan Huntzberger telling her he had fallen, _hard_ , for her—was full of truths. She had gotten twisted up in an emotional affair with Logan. It took all of meeting him for her to be totally entranced by his _everything_. Dean had been expelled from her mind the second that tennis ball hit her.

But still.

"Jealousy is not a valid reason to punch somebody," Rory argued. She searched her brain for a potential justifiable act that would cause a brawl. "The only time fists should be flying is when the other person stole something and won't give it back."

Logan, passionate as ever, grasped both of her hands and forced her to stare into his blackened eyes. "For all intents and purposes, I _had_ stolen from him and was refusing to give it back."

"Am I the _it_ in this metaphor?"

"I'm not talking about a tennis raket, Ace."

The pair sighed shallowly in unison. Rory tightened her grip on Logan's hands. His pulse jumped beneath her touch.

"You called him your ex-boyfriend," Logan said after a stretch of silence. A hint of glee touched his words, and it was enough to get Rory to smile.

"I did," she confirmed. "After I left you the first time, I talked with him and we both decided it would be best if we ended things."

"How are you feeling about that?"

"It comes and it goes, but mostly I feel great. Freed," she admitted.

Logan's thumbs began stroking her knuckles. The calluses built from years of tennis scratched her skin, but the slight irritation was oddly soothing.

"Was it really that bad?" he asked, his face pulled in as much of a frown as he could manage. "From what I read, you guys were some sort of power couple."

The Gilmore part of her wanted to say something witty like, _What, would you like me to take back my breakup?_ but she held off. Logan's question was well-founded. With how quickly things had shifted, it was no surprise he felt out of the loop.

She felt the same way, as if someone else was pulling the strings and causing all of this commotion. It was almost as though she had played no part in it. As though none of them had.

"It wasn't all that bad," Rory said eventually, picking at memories of her time with Dean. "At least, it didn't seem all that bad. I've been thinking about my relationship with Dean since I met you, trying to analyse it, see where it all went wrong, but I think it was always kind of wrong. Looking back, which is all I've been doing this afternoon, I realised I had sort of tricked myself into thinking I loved Dean, when really I was just settling for him. Hopefully he'll figure that out too, that he never truly loved me. It'll make things easier for the both of us."

She knew it already, but Logan was an excellent listener. Vaguely aware of his watchful, intense gaze as she prattled on about her split, she admired how well he sat silently and allowed her to speak her mind. Dean would have interrupted her halfway through with his own thoughts and opinions.

It was nice, after all of this time, to have someone sitting in front of her taking the time to digest her words.

"He wasn't abusive or anything," she said, "just . . . neglectful. Of my feelings and our relationship and what being in a relationship meant. I mean, we were both pretty naive. I'm no saint here, clearly," she added, gesturing between herself and Logan.

"Hey," Logan crooned, "it's like you keep saying, we didn't do anything wrong."

"I thought you said we did do something wrong."

"Whoa, whoa, no," Logan disputed, "I said he had reason to punch me. And you then said he didn't, so we're in the clear."

"Let's just say we're all somewhat at fault," Rory resolved. It was true, after all. None of them were in the clear. "How does that sound?"

Logan nodded and intertwined his fingers with Rory's. "That sounds good."

It happened slowly, which was nice. Logan's eyes, both still circled in a purple, blue, black ring, were studying her intently. He licked his lips, and Rory, unaware of what she was doing, mimicked him. Steadily, his head began moving forward. She remained still, her nerves cementing her body in place.

Logan released her hands, transferring his own up to her face. She kept hers resting on her knees. His rough fingers clasped her cheeks, his thumbs drawing shapes over her apples. He was frowning as he inched closer, a side effect of such earnest observation.

When their lips met, finally, Rory's mind cleared. There was no Dean, no Wimbledon, no fancy hotel room. It was only her and Logan and their mouths as they kissed. His tongue was wet and warm as it traced lines over her lips, begging for entry. Once entrance was granted, Rory released a low moan she would later feel embarrassed about, but in the moment felt was a reasonable retort to Logan's tongue marking the inside of her mouth.

Seconds—or perhaps it was minutes, maybe even hours—later, Rory, whose hands had risen and encircled Logan's neck, broke away, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. The remnants of Logan's mint toothpaste stung Rory's mouth in the sweetest of ways.

"Wait, wait, we should talk about this," she said, though her body, which was throbbing and begging to return to Logan's arms, disagreed with her suggestion.

Logan pulled back, smiling sheepishly, the same as he had when he approached Rory for the first time. He pressed his forehead against hers and rubbed a hand up and down her arm. "Right, you're right. How do we go about talking this through?"

Rory unwound her arms and fiddled with a loose thread on Logan's sheets. "We set up boundaries and discuss terms. Things like that."

"You're pulling this stuff from thin air, aren't you?"

"The only other time I've had to have this conversation was three years ago and it did not end very well. Of course I'm pulling this stuff from thin air."

"Okay, okay," Logan hushed, his hand still burning pleasantly through her arm. "What boundaries did you have in mind?"

Drawing away, Rory stared out the window the other side of the room, watching as the sun set the sky on fire. Clouds burned pink and orange.

"No other girls," she said, attempting to sound nonchalant.

Logan's free hand touched her chin and tugged her concentration back to him. He looked very serious. "Of course no other girls," he said. "You don't need to worry."

Rory bobbed her head once, accepting the sincerity and conviction in his voice. "To be honest, that's all I can think of right now."

Letting loose a tumbling sort of laugh, Logan dropped his hand from her chin. "Look, I'm not going to pretend to be an expert. I've never actually had a proper girlfriend before in my life"—

—"I am clearly not an expert, Logan."

"Then we can try this out together, Ace," he said fervidly.

A sense of _rightness_ broke over Rory. This felt _right_ , in a way it had never felt before.

"I like the sound of that."

For the next short while, the pair talked and kissed and laughed as the hours bled into darkness. They talked until there was no question if Rory would spend the night, even if their clothes remained on their bodies. They laid together beneath the soft duvet of Logan's bed, still revealing secrets to one another.

When the clock struck midnight their eyelids drooped, and they slept.

* * *

Her grandfather had once jokingly told her she would be late to her own funeral. Everybody in the room had laughed. She had just showed up, twenty minutes late, to his 60th birthday party. Try as she might, Rory Gilmore was late. For nearly everything except tennis matches, and even then she barely got there with any time to spare. Just enough to change and warm up for a few minutes.

So, when she awoke on the second Sunday of Wimbledon at 12:43 in the afternoon, the space in the bed next to her empty, she panicked. Almost more than tennis and books, Rory loved sleep. Rarely was she allowed more than seven hours a night, and the idea of sleeping for more than twelve had her head spinning. As did all that had occurred not just yesterday, but last night in particular. Scanning the empty bed frantically, she found a sticky note fixed to the pillow that had, at one point, been occupied by Logan Huntzberger's gorgeous head.

 _Ace,_

 _Gone to my mixed doubles final. You looked too peaceful to wake. I've secured you a seat at my singles final, hope to see you there. It's in my box, right next to Paris. Look for her when you get there._

 _Logan._

"Crap," Rory said aloud, looking around the room for a remote control. She spotted one across the room and leapt from the bed to grab it, turning on the large television in front of the bed.

The TV was already set to Sky Sports. Immediately, Rory saw Logan and his mixed doubles partner Paris Geller winning a point in the second set. They were up 5 games to 4 and they had managed to squeeze by in the first set on a tie-break. Mariano and Nardini must have still been on their high from beating her and Dean yesterday, but they were losing that now. It was 40-0 to Geller and Huntzberger, and Paris was serving for the match.

The players returned to their positions. Paris refused the ball boy's offer of a new tennis ball, which Rory knew she would do. Geller had a superstition that the fluffier the ball on her final serve, the more likely she was to win. Logan had his head faced forward as Paris threw the ball in the air. She would bet anything he already knew where his partner was going to place it. Down came Paris's arm and the ball flew into the air. It landed by Mariano, who quickly forehanded it back to Logan, who volleyed it to Nardini.

Rory held her breath. Nardini had issues being so close to the net, and she was very close to the net. In a scramble, the ball got the lost behind her swinging arms. Jess Mariano was too far away to reach it. His defeated eyes watched it on its second bounce and his racket fell to the ground as the crowd erupted.

Paris and Logan had won.

* * *

"I really don't get why he made you sit next to me."

"You can ask him after the match."

"Why don't you just move."

"I don't know anybody else. Asking to sit in their seat just because you don't like me would be really weird. Besides, the match is starting soon and then you won't be paying any attention to me."

Paris groaned beside Rory and Rory was having a hard time not doing the same. Ever since she sat down five minutes ago, Paris had been trying to get her to either leave or move somewhere else. Rory had thought that she would be kinder to her after her win, but to no avail. She was still Paris Geller, and she still hated Rory. Scooping up the mixed doubles title had apparently done nothing to cheer her up.

As she continued to give Rory a semi-death glare, her phone vibrated in her purse. It was her mother.

"Mom, what's up?" Rory answered, scrunching her face. She had forgotten to tell her mom or Luke where she was going to be.

"Oh, you know. Luke and I are on Henman (where you are supposed to be as well, I might add) and they keep showing Logan Huntzberger's box. At first, when Luke pointed out the similarities between you and this brunette sitting next to Paris Geller, I told him he was crazy. My daughter, sitting in Logan Huntzberger's box? No, she would have told me. But then they zoomed in on your face, and I'm sorry to say it honey, but it's you."

During professional tennis matches, Rory was able to easily forget the cameras. Her mind was too focused on the game, on getting that serve over the net. She wasn't on the court today, though. Her mother reminding her she was on TV (for millions of people to witness) made her entire body temperature rise.

"Um, yeah. It's me," Rory admitted. "I'm sorry for not telling you. I know we had plans to sit at Henman together. It's just . . . Logan got me a seat and I couldn't pass it up."

Paris huffed beside her. Rory fought the urge to shove her into the wall.

"Don't be sorry. I'm glad you're feeling okay after yesterday. You are, aren't you? Feeling better? I don't want you moving on too fast with this guy without knowing how you're really feeling. First heartbreak's are tough."

"I'm okay, Mom. Don't worry about me." She had been wondering ever since breaking up with Dean why she wasn't completely heartbroken, and she had decided yesterday that she would try figuring it out later. Now was not the time.

"Meet us after the match. Okay, Kid? And tell Logan his face looks god-awful."

"You got it, Mom."

"Ooh, you're on TV again. Wave hi!"

Rory's eyes searched the court. "Mom, there are so many cameras, I don't know which one to look"—

—"That one, that one!" Lorelai shrieked. "Come on, Kid. For me. And Luke."

In the background, Rory heard Luke say loudly, "I have no part in this."

Rory laughed. "Mom, I've got to go. The match is starting soon. I'll see you and Luke afterwards. Love you!"

Returning her phone to her bag, Rory straightened, aware that Paris was still mumbling about having to sit next to her. "I mean, he's only known you for a couple of weeks and you're already in his box?"

Rory stifled a laugh. Paris certainly had a way with words.

"That came out a lot more sexual than I had meant it. It's just, Logan is such a private guy. I hope you realise how lucky you are."

"Paris," Rory said, tired of the blond's complaining. "I am fully aware that I'm some strange exception to an unspoken rule. Now please, the match is about to start."

It was. No longer were Stan Wawrinka and Logan Huntzberger volleying a ball back and forth. They and taken their seats beside the umpire. Wrappings from new tennis rackets and sweatbands drifted in the gentle wind as Logan tightened the laces of his pristine white, Under Armour trainers. Rory watched him stick his fingers through the strings on his fresh racket and test the resistance. He looked so concentrated.

As she stared—gawked, more like it—Logan lifted his head towards his box, sending Rory's blood in a flurry through her veins.

First he mouthed something to his coach. After some nonverbal response, his hazel eyes, squinting in the sunlight, flicked upwards in her direction. It was the first time they had really seen each other since last night. He smiled crookedly. Unsure of what to do, Rory lifted her hand in a small wave, to which he responded by winking at her.

Someone so beautiful, even with his two black eyes and half-broken nose, should not be allowed to live.

The umpire called time, and Logan and Stan the Man stepped onto the court. Rory wasn't feeling so giddy now. Now, her heart was stuck somewhere in her throat. The two men walked with the umpire and huddled together as they observed a coin. It flew into the air. Upon its landing, Stand had the first serve.

Damn it.

The players took to their side of the court. A ball girl tossed three balls to Wawrinka. He chose two, rolling the other one back to the girl. He was ready to play.

Logan tapped his racket on the ground. Though the temperature in London was only in the early 80s, he swiped his forehead with his wristband. He was nervous. However, he was the picture of elegance as he bounced on his toes and crouched at the base line, waiting for Stan to serve.

The Swiss bounced the ball once more and brought his racket into the air. The crowd at Centre Court was silent. Chucking the ball high, Stan eyed it and sent it flying across the net. Logan's forehand caught it, and just like that, his first Wimbledon Singles Championship had begun.

* * *

Stan and Logan were deep into the fourth set. Stan had managed to steal the first away from Logan at 6-4. Something had happened with Logan's serve that allowed Wawrinka to capitalise and break him. After a pep talk with himself, Logan came back on the court and swiped the next two sets easily, winning the third 6-2.

Rory was surprised she was managing to watch. She figured if she pretended she was merely a fan of Logan's, hoping he would win, it would make being there easier to deal with. This tactic seemed to be working, but Logan was one point away from serving for the match. She had a feeling she would vomit once he stood on the base line for his serve.

Stan received fresh tennis balls from a small ball boy. Tucking one deep into his short's, he bounced the other a couple of times, eyeing his placement. Logan had the advantage after Stan's last serve, which turned out to be a double fault, discovered thanks to Logan using his second-to-last challenge. If Stan somehow lost this serve, Logan would be a mere four points away from winning.

The ball went up, then over the net. Logan smashed a double-handed backhand the other side of the court. Scrambling, Stan reached it just in time. He returned it, but there was too much power.

A linesman called it. "Out!" they bellowed, and the crowd cheered wildly.

Hints of a smile crept over Logan's face as he went over to a ball girl. She handed him his pick, her young eyes staring widely at his bruised face.

Rory could now taste her heart. It sat on her tongue, thumping away between her teeth.

A hush spread over the court. One last clap rang out as Logan took his place. Rory could feel her pulse everywhere, it danced through her fingers, her head, her stomach. Half of her wanted to clutch Paris's hand for support, but she stopped herself just in time.

Slinging a ball into the air, Logan shot it down the centre line. Stan wasn't fast enough. Nobody would be fast enough. Rory caught the IBM speed tracker. 165 MPH. Logan was breaking records left and right this tournament.

Again, the crowd could not contain themselves. Screams and shouts and whistles and claps assaulted Rory's ears. They were witnesses of history now. Logan Huntzberger was behind the fasted Wimbledon serve in recorded history.

The cheers continued until the umpire called for quiet and Logan returned to his position. He bounced the ball and served. Stan reached out, but it was again too quick. Another ace.

Rory's head was seconds from exploding as the crowd quieted once more. Two more points and Logan was the Wimbledon champion. Two more points and he was the first American to win since Sampras secured the title against Agassi in 2000. Rory couldn't wait for two more points—she was sitting literally on the edge of her seat, hand clasped absently around Paris's tight fist.

 _You can do it, Logan_ , she thought. _You can do it_.

As if he could hear her—he couldn't, but God, it felt like he could—Logan twisted his head towards her. Sweat dripped from the tips of his mussed hair. His broken face was coated in a sheen. Still, he looked handsome and prepared. Rory stared, her eyebrows pinched together, until he turned to face Wawrinka once more.

Logan would not get this point as easily as the last two. Regardless of his 146 MPH serve, Wawrinka was there, waiting for it. He returned the ball to Logan's backhand. Logan stumbled at the force of Stan's hit, but managed to get the ball to the edge of the base line. Stan was waiting. He shot a forehand deep. Logan's long legs got him to it quickly, and he slammed his racket hard against the ball. It flew over the net.

"Out!" came the cry of a linesman.

Logan's racket went up immediately.

Rory stood, dragging Paris with her. "What!" she shouted. "Oh, come on! The ball was good! Chalk flew up!"

The whole mass of people were shouting their disagreement. Grunting into the microphone, the umpire asked the crowd to calm. "Mr. Huntzberger is challenging the call. Ball was called out."

Rory and Paris, along with at least a quarter of the stadium, stood with their breaths held as they waited for the replay. On the screen, the green ball leapt and a shadow not more than a centimetre thick appeared over the chalk.

"Ball is in, Mr. Huntzberger leads 40-0."

Shouts of approval emerged from the audience. Rory and Paris sat down, their hands still entwined.

After two weeks of gruelling play, Logan was serving for the Championship. He brought his fists into the air and faced his box, his shirt riding up to reveal a thin strip of his tattoo. Rory laughed out of nothing more than stress and watched him walk slowly to the base line. He pulled a ball from his pocket and rocked back and forth on his heels.

He was going to attempt another ace. By the way Wawrinka was standing, he didn't think Logan would try for another one, but Logan was a show off. Of course he would try to win Wimbledon on an ace.

Sitting there, mindlessly attached to Paris Geller, watching Logan Huntzberger prepare for what could very well be the play that won him Wimbledon, Rory Gilmore felt at ease with the world. Everything had completely changed for her since she arrived in London, but the dramatic alterations to both her professional and personal life didn't frighten her. They excited her. Doors that had previously been barred were opening in front of her. She could see herself standing on this court next season by herself, maybe facing Paris. There was no Dean to hold her back. No self doubt keeping her from succeeding.

Luke was ready to train her for her first year without a partner. She was ready to put her all into this game, a game she had fallen in love with fifteen years ago before any boy had caught her attention.

The umpire calling out to Logan for a time infraction distracted Rory from her own mind. She glared at the umpire, a French man dressed in a suit that looked too big on him. That deafening silence blanketed Centre Court once more.

Logan rolled the ball in his hand and sent it down, bouncing it once, twice before preparing for his serve. He touched the ball to his racket, shifting his weight. The ball moved upwards with his arm. His body stretched out as he sliced his racket in the air. A clang rang out and the ball soared with the breeze. It happened in slow motion—the ball landed directly on the centre line and glided past a confused Stan Wawrinka, slamming into the curtain by a linesman.

"In!"

Rory gasped, tightening her grip on Paris. The two girls stared at each other. Squeals of elation seeped from their mouths. They jumped from their seats, finally releasing their hands, and cheered loud and long.

Logan had fallen to the floor. His chest rose and fell with sobs. He brought his hands up to his face, his racket long forgotten beside him, and wept. In response, Rory's throat constricted and her eyes welled. When he stood, he turned towards his box and whooped in celebration. She clapped as he ran for them, mind whirring when he started climbing to reach them. He got to his coach first. They slapped each other's back with the biggest smiles on their faces. Then he went to his mother and sister, who gathered him in a group hug. Next, it was Paris's turn.

Rory watched them, feeling suddenly out of place.

Who was she, really? There, with all of his support group. Paris was right. She had known him only three weeks. She didn't belong there. Not really. Panicking, Rory looked around for a quick exit. Before she could leave, something gripped her hand. Logan.

"Ace, you made it," he said, bruised eyes burning red. He was smiling widely and there was a waterfall of laughter spilling from his lips. Adrenaline really was the best pain reliever. He hardly seemed to notice his bruises.

Rory thought for a moment about what to say. About how to combat this strange sensation of having her foot only halfway through the door.

"I wouldn't have missed it," she said finally, grinning.

Head falling back, Logan let out a belly laugh and pulled Rory in for a hug. He squeezed, whispering in her ear, "You proud of your boy?"

Rory pulled away. _My boy_? she thought. Unexpectedly, she liked the sound of it. "I'm very proud," she responded, laughing as Logan leaned in closer and brushed their lips together, mindless of the cameras and the crowd. His mouth tasted of sweat and success and a happiness Rory would be lucky to ever experience.

He retreated from her all too soon for the ceremony, heading directly to Stan and gathering him in a bear hug. The men separated, ready to receive their awards.

Rory watched the ceremony with stinging eyes.A mixture of sadness and ecstasy babbled in her stomach. Sadness because this was the end of Wimbledon. The end of her first encounter with the most amazing tournament in the world. So many things had happened during these last few weeks. She didn't want to leave.

But ecstasy because of how well things had turned out. She and Dean might not have snagged the mixed doubles title, but their loss had set Rory on a new, thrilling path. One she never would have imagined herself on last month, or even last week.

Rory Gilmore was happy, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

 **A/N:** If you made to the end, I would love to know how you felt! I won't beg for reviews (I find it tacky and, quite frankly, distasteful), but if you're feeling up to it, don't hesitate. Unless you're thinking of being really mean. Then please hesitate.

That's it, folks. Kind of. I actually have an outline for both a one-shot set immediately after the finals and a little short story set in the future. Let me know if you're interested in either or both!

Anyways, again, thank you so much. My love for these two has expanded over the past couple of days as I watched the reboot, and I am happy to finally be sharing the last piece of this particular story.

-Bethany


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